


Sacred Bond

by Eressë (eresse21)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 63,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eresse21/pseuds/Eress%C3%AB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most bonds evolve with time. But a precious few begin at birth. The prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1267603/chapters/2617468"><b><i>Hallowed Fate</i></b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Advent

**Author's Note:**

> _The characters belong to the wizard of storytelling himself, JRR Tolkien and/or his estate. No offense is intended or profit made in my use of them._
> 
> The true date of Legolas’s birth is unknown, but there is an argument that he was born during or right after the Watchful Peace. This story takes off from that supposition.

Mirkwood, _ethuil_ T.A. 2063  
The silence of the once magnificent green wood was fraught with foreboding. But how could it not be when in its southwestern bound, evil had taken root and waxed with every passing year. Who or what wielded the power in Dol Guldur, not even the Wise knew for certain but, from this black-at-heart stronghold, pestilence to riddle the spirit and body flowed forth and darkened the lushness and verdancy of the greatest surviving forest left in Middle-earth.

The brethren Elladan and Elrohir followed the elven path that would lead to the forest realm of the Silvan Elves of Mirkwood and the cavernous halls of their Sindarin king. They bore a message from their father, Elrond. 

That the lord of Imladris should send his own sons in lieu of a courier bespoke the woefully fractious relationship between his people and the Elvenking’s. Only by sending the twins could Elrond be certain that his message would get to Thranduil at all. Such a move averted mistreatment of the messenger and ensured that the lines of communication would remain open between the reclusive folk of the Woodland Realm and the people of the hidden vale of Rivendell.

It was a pity in these dark times that even amongst the fair folk such mistrust continued. But it was merely another far-reaching consequence of the last war against Sauron. One of many that had plagued all those who had joined the Last Alliance of Elves and Men and taken part in the battles that had brought the Second Age to a close.

This rift between Thranduil and the other Elvenlords sprung from the ill-advised charge of the king’s sire against Sauron in Mordor. The deaths of Oropher and a ghastly number of his people had brought to the fore the ever festering resentment of the Wood-elves that they were little more than fodder for slaughter in the eyes of their Noldorin allies. The perceived slowness of reaction to the news of the ongoing massacre of Oropher’s ranks had only exacerbated the sores. 

It did not matter that it had been nigh impossible for Gil-galad to come to their aid in an instant. What mattered was that at the end of the war, the Silvan Elves of Greenwood the Great had returned to their forest home sans their king and the greater part of the army they had set out with.

Since then, altercations had been wont to occur each time citizens of this kingdom came into contact with their kindred from other realms. Nothing so serious as kinslaying. But acerbic arguments, petty quarrels and the occasional brawl had been known to break out here and there when the more intemperate of either side met.

Neither Thranduil nor his Eldarin counterparts condoned such hostile encounters. But there was little they could do once their respective subjects engaged in their tussles save to reprimand the instigators and give them due warning not to sully the honor of their realms again. Naturally, the miscreants would be chastened but there were always more to take their places and so the less than amiable encounters continued albeit never on a scale that would have led to the slitting of throats and outright war.

The brethren were acutely aware of this state of affairs as they made their way along the shadowed path. Elladan never lowered the clenched fist he held up—symbol of their peaceful intentions. They had come not to fight but to parley on their father’s behalf. The necessity for such outward displays became ever more acute when they espied the reluctant standing down of archers and warriors near hidden in the brush and treetops. Had there been the slightest trace of belligerence in the twins’ manner, they would have been fortunate to arrive at Thranduil’s halls unscathed.

The Wood-elves would not have slain them—they were not evil creatures after all. But they would have had no compunction about inflicting a wound or two upon them if they deemed a lesson in courtesy needed to be taught.

Their reception in the cavernous throne room was less threatening but noticeably stilted. Thranduil’s sons Gilfaron and Denilos kept silent while their father went through the motions of welcoming the brethren. No word of warmth or hostility passed their lips. They were civil and well-mannered as was expected of them and that was all. But their sisters Tuilinniel and Celebrethil remained at a telling distance from the guests. Both eyed the twins with the faintest trace of suspicion. Neither Elladan nor Elrohir had anticipated anything more or less from the royal brood.

Thranduil swiftly perused the missive Elrohir had handed him. Now he glanced up, one golden eyebrow rising in question.

“If I am to allow the Wandering Companies safe passage through my realm, what guarantee have I that they will not instigate trouble with my people?” he coolly inquired.

Elladan glanced warily at his brother. It was not surprising that Thranduil was not too enthusiastic about permitting these nomadic Elves access to his woods. The most recent encounter between the Wood-elves and members of one of these companies had been far from pleasant. Not that anyone had actually misbehaved in any way. But trouble had a way of insinuating itself into a situation when the protagonists were all too willing to find fault with the other.

It had been a border dispute about whether the Mirkwood Elves had the right to police just so much acreage of land beyond the northern bounds of the forest. But tempers had flared swiftly and the opposing groups had nigh come to blows save for the timely intervention of the Elvenking himself. Now Elrond was requesting passage through Mirkwood for these same Elves - trespassers in the eyes of the Wood-elves.

Still, it was a reasonable request. The Imladrin lord was not asking for anything more than that the Mirkwood folk permit the Wandering Companies to take the relatively safe and secure elven paths that cut through the middle of the forest. There would be no contact at all with the citizens of the Woodland Realm except for accidental ones.

“Gildor Inglorion sends his apologies for that regrettable incident between his people and yours, my king,” Elladan carefully replied. “He has given his word that his folk will never venture from the tracks or approach any Elves of this realm.”

“Gildor’s word is true, my lord,” Elrohir added softly. “You may trust him in this.”

Thranduil regarded the twins somberly. He was not well acquainted with the son of Inglor but Elrond did not vouch for the honor or veracity of others lightly. What Elrohir had meant but had not said was that the Elvenking could trust Elrond’s word implicitly. He sat back on his throne, eyes flicking from one advisor or warrior to another, silently questioning them.

The brethren quietly awaited Thranduil’s decision on the matter. They knew the king’s counsellors and captains would oppose the request. But Thranduil was known to have a mind of his own and one seldom influenced that easily by others save perhaps for his wife and children. If he allowed his council some say in the matter, it was out of the courtesy due their positions in his court and not because he was beholden to them or in their thrall.

While they listened to the arguments for and against the proposal, they endured the scrutiny to which they were always subjected whenever they set foot in this cloistered realm. It was not surprising that they should be studied so avidly. After all they were Peredhil.

To mortal eyes, they did not look any different from the rest of their kindred and indeed, even amongst the Firstborn, few troubled to make any distinctions. Only the most observant of men noted the slightly broader shoulders, the wider chests, the more solid limbs that denoted their half-elven ancestry. But scarcely any realized that their features were also subtly dissimilar to most Edhil. Their eyes were more striking, their lips fuller and more sinuous and their skin was of a glowing alabaster that was certainly fairer than mortal flesh, yet not as white as other Elves.

But they were no less graceful or swift or agile than their full-blooded counterparts. True, they were not as keen-sighted or impossibly sharp of hearing but they were, on the other hand, quicker of wit and further in foresight than many an _ellon_. And they were stronger. The strength that simmered unseen within their deceptively slender forms was far more than was normal for the Firstborn. In them the primal vigor of the Edain mingled potently with the ageless power of the Eldar.

They were both earthy and ethereal, evincing their dual heritage in both form and manner. And they were beautiful. That was one undeniable fact about Elrond’s sons. They were surpassingly comely and possessed of a sensuality that was generally muted in pure-bloods. They were coveted in every elven realm from Lothlórien to the Grey Havens. Were it not for the present reserve between the Greenwood folk and Rivendell, it was highly likely Thranduil’s people would have been smitten as well.

A long-winded advisor was finally ending his diatribe against the less-than-constant Noldor of Imladris when a distraught Elf-woman burst into the chamber. She ran straight to Thranduil and flung herself on the floor before him.

“My lord! The queen is in labor!” she wailed. “The healers fear for her and the babe!”

Thranduil paled and leaped to his feet. “Nay, ‘tis not possible,” he exclaimed. “She is still three months before her time!”

His shocked children gathering around him, he hastened from the throne room with nary a word to anyone.

The brethren glanced at each other, concern limning their eyes. It was indeed too soon for Queen Alphaieth to bear her latest child. But such cases of premature birthing or, worse, the dying of unborn children while still within their mothers’ wombs, were becoming increasingly frequent in Mirkwood.

It was the ever-encroaching malignancy that spilled from Dol Guldur that wrought this evil on the Wood-elves. Just as their forest home steadily fell to decay and stagnation, so were the Elves themselves affected, their bodies’ natural cycles corrupted to some extent. Already fertility in the Woodland Realm had decreased alarmingly and many pregnancies were as apt to end in stillborn babes or prematurely birthed infants as come to full term.

The twins hesitated at first. It was not their place to intrude or interfere in this kingdom’s affairs. But they were Elrond’s sons and the healer’s need to give aid was strong in their blood. The fear and anguish in Thranduil’s eyes had been all too real. They hesitated no more and swiftly followed the Elvenking to the Healing Halls. None dared bar their way when they glimpsed the determined set of their grim mouths or the warning flash in their grey eyes.

The stench of panic reached out to them ere they entered the birthing chamber where the laboring Elf-queen lay. They stared in shock and pity when they saw her.

Queen Alphaieth writhed in agony, clutching her distended belly, her dark hair clinging to her sweat-soaked face and neck in unruly tendrils. Saliva frothed between her chapped lips as she whimpered and moaned with every spasm that wracked her bloated frame. Thranduil was by her side, his hands atop hers, murmuring words of encouragement and love to her as she struggled to rid her body of an infant not yet quite ready to face the world.

“What is wrong?” Elladan asked of a hovering midwife. “What impedes the child?”

The Elf-woman, horrified eyes riveted on her mistress, replied, “Her womb is forcing the child to descend but the birth passage is not opening up.”

The twins frowned. Such cases of the birth canal refusing to enlarge were extremely rare amongst the Firstborn. The only recourse was to forcibly widen the passage by cutting it open. There was always the risk of death from too much blood loss, but so far those that they had witnessed had gone smoothly enough. However, there was something else here…

Ignoring the frowns of the other healers, they bent over the queen and, with gentle hands, examined her. Their eyes met across the lady, dark with apprehension. Thranduil noted their dismay at once.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What ails my wife?”

Elrohir looked at him. “She is bleeding profusely within,” he explained. “And her heart is unnaturally weak.” He drew a deep breath. “She and the babe may not survive.”

“Nay!” the queen suddenly cried out pantingly. “You must save the child!” She looked frantically at Thranduil. “He must be born, husband. Do what you must but save our child.”

Thranduil looked at her in anguish. Before them, the chief healer stood ready, a thin knife in hand. The king bit his lip then nodded and held his wife close.

Another healer hurried to mix a sleeping draught. But Elladan shook his head. “The child must be delivered now if it is to live,” he shouted.

He bent once more over Alphaieth and cupped her face in his hands. “Look at me, my lady,” he commanded. “Hear only me.”

His tone was compelling. Despite her pain, the queen was caught by it and soon their gazes were locked. Elladan began to murmur to her, his voice mesmerizing, his eyes bewitching. Thranduil watched in awe as his wife’s eyes glazed over and the twitching of her body slowly stilled. Her countenance took on a serene cast, as the pain seemed to recede. Elrohir signed to the healer to do what was necessary.

Under Elladan’s hypnotic spell, Alphaieth did not feel the slash of the knife, did not feel the brutal sensation of her wounded flesh giving way before the inexorable downward progress of the child within her, did not note the frightening gush of blood that preceded the tiny form the healer drew from between her gory thighs. She took a shuddery breath, then another weaker one. Elladan’s mouth tightened and he looked at Thranduil in sorrow.

The king caught his wife to him and implored her to stay, to fight on. Her eyes flickered with awareness for one instant. She whispered something to him. And then she slumped into his arms, her body limp and unmoving.

Thranduil hoarsely cried out her name, then clutched her tightly in his arms. Their children came forward, the daughters weeping, the sons white with grief.

Elrohir sighed dolorously then glanced down at the child that lay between its mother’s legs. A male child. It lay as still as she. A bloodied rag doll to all appearances. The healer had not troubled to swaddle it and present it to the king. Elrohir sighed again.

He bent over the poor thing and stroked its cheek with a finger. The infant was tinier than normal, shockingly pallid and cold to the touch. To the untrained eye, he would have been deemed lifeless ere he emerged from his mother’s womb. Indeed, to the healers of the Woodland Realm, the child was beyond recall. The Halls of Awaiting would play host not only to the late queen but also to the youngest prince of the kingdom.

But Elrohir, child of Elrond, did not make assumptions that easily or quickly. Something caught his eye and he leaned down closer to study the babe. And then, to the midwife’s surprise, he snatched up a blanket, wrapped the little body in it and lifted the child into his arms.

To the Elf-woman’s puzzlement, he held the still small form close, as if warming the babe’s body with his own. He sneaked a finger into the blue-ringed mouth and extracted a coil of mucus that had blocked the child’s air passage. And then he pressed his mouth to the infant’s.

Over and again, he breathed into the child’s mouth while his fingers lightly but purposefully palpitated the unmoving chest. The midwife stared at him, frowning at what she considered his folly. The babe was no more. The Peredhel was wasting his breath and time on a corpse. She shook her head disapprovingly when Elladan made no move to stop his brother, then turned her attention to the sad business of cleaning up the dead queen.

It was then that a thready wail rent the air. Heads jerked up in shock and eyes homed in on Elrond’s younger son. Elrohir did not cease in his life-giving ministrations but only lifted his lips from the infant’s mouth occasionally to allow the latter to draw breath on his own. And draw breath the child did.

Fitfully at first and with many a wheeze and sputtering cry. But each cry became stronger and longer and the wheezing slowly diminished until, with one heave of his tiny lungs, the babe let out a lusty wail. The healers stared in shock, first at the child and then at Elrohir.

The twin had done the impossible in their eyes. He had battled Námo himself for the life of their king’s last-born. And won.

Elrohir looked across at Elladan and smiled. The smile that mirrored his was just as relieved and triumphant.

Thranduil approached the Elf-knight with a look of utter disbelief in his eyes. He stared at his little son.

The babe’s eyes blinked open to reveal irises the color of purest sapphire. They alighted awhile on the Elf who held him ere moving on to the Elf who had sired him. And then the infant wailed once more, the timber of his cry informing one and all that he was in need of sustenance and soonest.

The midwife ran off at once to fetch a wet nurse while Elrohir gently handed the precious bundle into the befuddled Elvenking’s arms.

“Have you a name for him?” he quietly asked.

Thranduil gazed down at his child, eyes gleaming with grateful tears. “Aye, his mother named him with her last breath,” he replied. He looked at Elrohir and said: “She wished to call him Legolas.”

Elrohir smiled faintly. “May this forest one day be as blessed anew, my lord,” he murmured.

Thranduil studied the younger twin, aware of the meaning behind his words. He nodded in acknowledgement. They both looked down at the now fussing babe.

Mirkwood’s little Greenleaf gazed back at them, his eyes like the most brilliant of jewels.

*************************  
Glossary:  
ethuil – Sindarin for spring  
Edhil – Elves  
ellon – male Elf

_To be continued…_


	2. Bridging

Rhosgobel, _laer_ T.A. 2071  
They gathered before the rustic halls of Radagast the Brown in the vales of Anduin nigh to the southern borders of Mirkwood. Thranduil and his beauteous progeny stood tall and proud as they awaited the approach of the party from Imladris.

Times had been relatively quiet since the malevolent power that had ruled Dol Guldur fled its premises before the courageous advance of Gandalf the Grey soon after the passing of the Woodland Realm’s Queen Alphaieth. Not that the evil had diminished; only that for the present, it was muted somewhat. These were the beginning years of the Watchful Peace. Though the use of the word ‘peace’ seemed grimly laughable in light of the reason for the conference to be held on the neutral grounds of Rhosgobel between the Half-elven lord of Rivendell and the Elvenking of Mirkwood.

Relations between the two realms had changed little in the years since the fraught birth of Thranduil’s last child. Indeed, on some fronts, it had turned positively frosty. The woodland folk remained wary and reclusive, their distrust exacerbated by the occasional but continued clashes with the other elven tribes. Again, nothing as heinous as the kinslayings and abductions that had blighted the First Age but rather altercations of varying degrees of severity. Yet the Wood-elves were not entirely to blame for this woeful state of affairs.

Not all of Elrond or Círdan’s people were as sharp of wit or foresighted as their lords and some were apt to act foolishly when they came into contact with the Silvan folk. And Thranduil’s Elves, their suspicious natures boosted by their perilous existence, were quick to respond in kind. As for the mysterious citizens of the Golden Wood, well, they were even more secretive than Mirkwood’s inhabitants. But the Wood-elves knew they hearkened to Elrond because their lord and lady were sire and dam to Elrond’s wife. They were not to be trusted either.

One such encounter between an arrogant Imladrin patrol and a mule-headed Mirkwood hunting party had come dangerously close to the point of total enmity between the two realms. Alarmed by the prospect of these elven strongholds lurching on the brink of hostilities if not outright war, Mithrandir had insisted on a meeting between Elrond and Thranduil to straighten matters out. He had persuaded both to come to Rhosgobel and narrow if not close the rift that yawned ever wider between their peoples.

Now was not the time to dredge up old sores or foster new wounds, the Istar had gently but firmly chastened them. It was not demanded of them that they become close friends but for the love of all that was pure and good, could they not at least have peace between them? The elven tribes had to unite if they were to withstand the evils that threatened Middle-earth anew.

And so they came to Radagast’s home. As expected, the Mirkwood party arrived first. But the Rivendell Elves were not long in following and within the hour were sighted as they neared the Wizard’s house.

Thranduil perused his children with not a little pride. It had been agreed that he and Elrond would bring their respective families with them as a gesture of good faith and a way of calming the all too easily roused dudgeon of their respective subjects.

His proud regard was not without basis. His dark-haired heir, Gilfaron, would one day rule their people as ably as his father should Thranduil, Eru forbid, meet an untimely end. Gold-crowned Denilos already defended the realm as one of its most valorous captains. Tuilinniel, with her resplendent red-bronze locks, and Celebrethil, whose shining tresses were closer to silver than gold, were as cunning and feisty as their brothers but also capable of the gentleness and compassion of their departed mother.

Thranduil’s eyes dipped lower and softened as he gazed at the slender sprite who hid behind Tuilinniel’s skirts. _Mithril_ and gold hair so soft and fine it could pass for the richest silk framed a tiny face still round of cheeks as befitted a child barely past infancy. Large round eyes of a deep cerulean hue peered out at the goings on, curiosity and apprehension alternating in their depths. A rosebud of a mouth and a pert nose completed a countenance that promised sheer perfection of feature and shape in the not so distant future.

Legolas clutched at his sister’s skirt and tucked closer against her side as the Imladrin Elves approached. In all his eight years, he had seen so little of other Elves as to almost consider them another race. Too young to have absorbed his people’s distrust of these _Edhil_ , he was nonetheless a little fearful of all strangers. But also excited as most children are when confronted with something new and fascinating.

The Rivendell contingent entered the small courtyard astride their wondrous elvish steeds, a splendid sight to the little Elf’s eyes. Elrond and his ethereally lovely wife Celebrían headed the party. Golden Glorfindel and darkly handsome Erestor followed them, riding at either side of their lord and lady. Just behind the esteemed warrior and the sage steward, an _elleth_ of astounding beauty could be glimpsed.

Legolas guessed she must be Arwen, she who was called the Evenstar of the Eldar. He had oft heard it whispered that she was Thingol’s daughter of Doriath returned.

With considerable awe, Legolas watched the newly arrived Elves gracefully dismount. It was then that he espied two mirror images as they came up from behind. He squealed in delight.

Protocol was thrown to the wind. Diffidence cast by the wayside. Legolas darted from between his sisters and raced toward one of the near identical soldier-princes, one name issuing from his lips.

Elrohir smiled and dropped to one knee, arms held out, decorum be damned. An instant later, he hugged close a gleeful Elfling, oblivious of the stares leveled on them.

“ _Mae govannen_ , Legolas”—Well met—he said with great warmth. “I see you have grown some, _pen neth_.”—young one.

Legolas giggled and gazed happily at him. Here was the one Elf from without who was no stranger to him but filled his child’s heart with joy and belonging whenever they met.

Legolas knew. This was his savior. The reason he lived.

“I was worried you would not come,” he said in his high lilting voice.

“How could I not come when I knew you would be looking for me?” Elrohir teased him gently, running his fingers through the sun-kissed mane.

“Not to mention that it was required of us all to accompany our fathers,” Elladan pointed out with a grin as he came to their side. He held out a friendly hand to the tiny Elf. “How fare you, Legolas?”

Legolas shyly but readily clasped the proffered hand. “I am well, Elladan,” he murmured with a smile.

He was not as close to the older twin but he did not fear him either. If Elrohir had assured his very existence, it was Elladan who had eased his mother’s passing from hers. For that alone, he liked the Elf-knight’s brother as well.

A collective clearing of throats called their attention back to the reason for the gathering. Elrohir rose with a rueful sigh, Legolas’s fingers still tightly wrapped around his hand.

“Later, little one,” he softly said. “After our fathers have threshed out their differences, we will spend time together.”

He had to grin when the Elfling pouted mutinously. Legolas was aware that not all the woodland folk approved of his devotion to Elrohir even if he did not fully understand why. But he had also been taught that there was a time and place for everything. A markedly affectionate reunion with Elrond’s younger son was not to everyone’s liking on either side of the divide. It was not wise or prudent to flaunt their friendship too often or openly. But he was also Thranduil’s son and had inherited enough of his sire’s nature to stubbornly cling to his chosen loyalties. One never knew if he would give in or not to the exigencies of the moment.

At last Legolas nodded, albeit grudgingly, and released the Elf-knight. “You promise?” he asked, looking up with pleading eyes.

“I promise,” Elrohir replied. “As soon as we are done for the day, I will be at your beck and call, _lass dithen_.”—little leaf.

The blue eyes sparkled merrily both at the familiar appellation and the promise of his friend’s companionship. Only then did the princeling return to his sister’s side.

* * * *

The talks lasted all day, ending only when the sun began to lower in the late afternoon sky. This was not surprising considering how many grievances were brought up, some so old as to be positively hoary, some fairly recent and not yet addressed.

Mithrandir had suggested that the twins take part in the discussions if only to soften Thranduil’s attitude towards his conference companions. The Elvenking and his family had good reason to be grateful to Elrond’s sons. But Elrond’s sons were not the whole of their people. Whatever goodwill Thranduil and his kin might harbor for the brethren was not automatically extended to the rest of their kindred. However, they tended to be more open when in the twins’ presence. Hence, Gandalf’s insistence on their participation.

The ploy worked well enough to ensure that both sides at least listened to each other and acknowledged errors made and apologies tendered. In all, it proved a hopeful first meeting.

But the length of it was a trial for the fair-haired little prince who longed to be with his adored friend.

Legolas refused to keep company with his sisters or nurse or even with the warriors assigned to watch over them. Instead, he took to clambering up the great oak that overlooked the open porch where the talks were held. From this vantage point, he could see what was going on and ever so often exchange a wink or a grin with Elrohir.

His sisters clucked with disapproval, his nurse implored him to descend to no avail and the warriors whose company he had scorned scowled with understandable pique. It touched on their pride that their youngest prince should show such blatant preference for the company of one who was not even of their kingdom.

Not that anyone dared to chasten him save his father and siblings perhaps. And certainly none could begrudge him his attachment to the Elf-knight. Legolas owed his very life to Elrohir. It was a debt that could never be truly repaid. If the little prince offered his friendship as a means of redeeming some of it, who were they to judge it right or wrong?

But he did not have to enjoy himself so much in the paying of it, many grumbled. Had it been simply a matter of gratitude-spawned tit-for-tat, it would not have irked them so. But no, Legolas genuinely worshipped Elrond’s son. Thrived in his presence. Was never so happy as when Elrohir visited the Woodland Realm.

The Elf-warrior was aware of the simmering resentment and being of a tactful bent took pains to conduct himself with all propriety and restraint. But when one’s partner in crime or, in this case, diplomatic gaffes was an irrepressible royal toddler with a stubborn streak to boot—it was fairly difficult to pull off to put it mildly. As was evinced when the council broke up for the day.

Hardly had Elrohir risen from his chair when he descried the little form scrambling down the great oak with agile swiftness. Conscious of the amused stares of some and the far from amused glares of others, he quietly awaited the tiny whirlwind’s appropriation of his self.

“You promised!” Legolas immediately reminded him when he started to suggest that mayhap they could wait until the following morn.

Elrohir had to grin at his little friend’s tenacity. “Aye, that I did,” he conceded. “Very well, lead the way, _pen neth_.”

With an apologetic glance at Thranduil and a helpless shrug to his parents, he allowed an elated Legolas to haul him away.

* * * *

The following morning found a cat-and-mouse game in progress over in the small patch of woods behind Radagast’s house. A tall Elf slowly and silently searched the brush and trees, his stealth and grace evidence of long experience and skill in the stalking-arts. His eyes darted from side to side, picking up signs of the passage of his quarry.

Just as silently, a small form emerged from the vegetation behind him and crept up to the seeming oblivious warrior. It appeared that this prey was intent on turning the tables and capturing its hunter instead. The fair-haired mite moved ever closer, face flushed with excitement, eyes shining with anticipation.

At the very last moment, the darkling Elf suddenly turned around and with a triumphant growl, scooped up his tiny shadow. Elrohir guffawed as he slung his armful of shrieking, squirming, squealing Elfling over his shoulder and hastened back to the house.

On the back porch, Radagast awaited them, a large tray of freshly baked sweets in hand. One backward glance informed Legolas of the treats and he ceased his cacophonous protests in an instant. Without further ado, he eagerly rearranged himself in the Elf-knight’s arms that by the time they reached the Wizard, he was comfortably enfolded in Elrohir’s embrace.

Minutes later, Elrohir settled down beneath a slender elm, Legolas ensconced in his lap and a plateful of pastries atop the princeling’s legs in turn. Legolas happily fed the Elf-knight as diligently as he helped himself to the sweets. In between bites, his cheerful piping voice was heard to recount events that had passed in Mirkwood in the half-year since he and the twin had last been together.

From their perch on a second-story balcony on the other side of the house, Elrond and Gandalf watched them. The Wizard chuckled softly as he observed their affectionate manner with each other. He glanced at Elrond, his wizened eyes bright with the pleasure of having been treated to so endearing a sight.

“Would that you and Thranduil could be as amiable with each other,” he remarked to the Imladrin lord.

Elrond sighed. “Thranduil would sooner gut me than shake my hand over more than a formal treaty,” he said somewhat cynically.

Gandalf shook his head chidingly. “Now that is the kind of talk that has led to this rift between you,” he pointed out. “If he and you, their own lords, speak so disparagingly of one another, what can you expect of your people?”

Elrond paused then nodded, a rueful smile creasing his lips. “You are right. We will have to strive to follow our sons’ example if we are to know as much accord between us as they do.”

“More than accord,” Gandalf commented. “They will be the key to securing peace between your realms.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow at that. “Will they?” he murmured. “They are but two souls who have found friendship amidst adversity.”

“And they will have more than that I warrant,” the Wizard continued. “I cannot say for certain what it is I feel when in their presence, but it is very strong. Strong enough to bring your people together I believe.”

Elrond stared at him in some amazement. “I hope you are right, _meldiren_ ”—my friend—he said. “‘Twould be a great blessing for all of us. And a timely one.”

Gandalf eyed the pair thoughtfully. Tired out by the morning’s play and a bellyful of honey cakes, Legolas had began to nod off. Elrohir shifted him in his arms to cradle him against his chest. The little Elf contentedly curled up in the comfortable nest of the Elf-knight’s embrace and was soon fast asleep. With a doting smile, Elrohir dropped a tender kiss on the child’s golden crown, then lazily leaned back against the tree to wait out the princeling’s nap.

“I wonder if you yet realize that your Elrohir’s destiny lies with Legolas,” he said. “‘Tis almost as if he already belongs to the young prince.”

Elrond turned startled eyes on the Istar. “Belongs?” he repeated.

Gandalf nodded. “I cannot see all that the future holds for them but of what I do see, they are rarely if ever apart,” he said slowly. He looked solemnly at Elrond. “I believe the fates have more in store for them than this enviable friendship of theirs. Methinks it will change once Legolas matures and becomes an Elf of his own.” Again, he observed the duo and Elrohir’s tender attention to his slumbering charge. “And he will be beautiful, that much is certain. Astonishingly so.”

He glanced at Elrond and smiled at his friend’s stunned expression. “Come now, Elrond, all children grow up,” he chuckled. “But as to what they become when they do is anyone’s guess. Including yours and mine.”

Elrond let his breath out. “You are suggesting that one day they may very well…” He stopped, unable to quite believe the notion, much less accept it.

“I suggest nothing but that change is inevitable and that their friendship can and will most likely evolve with the passage of years,” Gandalf demurred reasonably. “As to what it evolves into is entirely up to the two of them.”

Elrond regarded him searchingly. And then he sighed. “And I will just have to resign myself to the inevitable whatever it may be,” he said with a snort that was equal parts caustic and amused. “Ah, you truly enjoy confounding your friends, Mithrandir.”

The Wizard said nothing, but his eyes twinkled humorously.

****************************  
Glossary:  
laer – Sindarin for summer  
elleth – Elf-maid

_To be continued…_


	3. Pledges

Mirkwood, T.A. 2082  
Was it his imagination or was the forest just a wee bit more verdant than it had been for the longest time? Elrohir peered out with a hopeful smile at the trees beyond the balcony of the guest chamber he shared with Elladan. Though the canopy was as thick as ever, Ithil had managed to penetrate it with his silvery light and illuminate the growth that sprouted about the residential pavilion of Mirkwood’s royal family. It seemed the malignant influence of Dol Guldur had waned somewhat ever since its mysterious master had abandoned it.

He and Elladan had arrived but a few hours earlier for one of their twice-yearly visits to the Woodland Realm. Such sojourns ensured that the hard-won treaty between Imladris and Mirkwood remained intact. Matters had progressed quite encouragingly. Not enough that Thranduil or Elrond might consider each other boon companions but certainly enough that the twins did not have to take care of conveying all of their father’s correspondence to the Elvenking and Thranduil had actually deigned to dispatch a few formal letters to the Half-elven lord.

Feelings of mutual ire had not dissipated completely of course. The grudges held for so many centuries could not be set aside so easily. There was still many a caustic confrontation whenever parties from either side of the divide met. But vehement quarrels had decreased significantly and so had the lamentable fisticuffs that had so marred the Elves’ reputation for cool reserve.

The twins had taken it upon themselves to help maintain this admittedly fragile state of affairs by presenting themselves as frequently as possible at Thranduil’s court. For one thing, it permitted them to preempt any latent feelings of resentment against Rivendell from boiling over into action. For another, Legolas would not have had it any other way.

Elrohir smiled at the thought. Now all of nineteen years of age, Legolas had proven a steadfast friend, a most apt and adept pupil and a warm-hearted child who never failed to bring ease to the Elf-knight’s oft beset heart. For such was the legacy of the Peredhil that he and Elladan had had to shoulder their share of duties from their early youth onward.

So embroiled was their family in the ongoing events of both elven and human realms that they seldom knew the peace of mind less knowledgeable beings enjoyed. They felt the weight of their heritage as keenly as their father but, with the solid foundation of their love-shrouded childhoods to hearten them, discharged their responsibilities without demur and always with an eye to the future and the consequences of whatever they did.

Still and all, they knew what it meant to be alone and lonely. More so Elrohir than Elladan.

Unlike his brother, Elrohir was not one to find assuagement of his fraught feelings in mere couplings. Though he had been as profligate as Elladan in the first millennium of their lives, he had always been more at ease with partners with whom he shared more than just his bed. Not for him one-night trysts where he could not recall his bedmate’s name on the morrow. To this day, he was regarded with much affection by his erstwhile lovers for the kindness and concern with which he treated them even after breaking off relations with them. 

Recently, he had indulged himself far less than of yore, going for years on end without bedding anyone. Elladan often teased him about this, suggesting that he was far more human than any had suspected for him to slow down in this field so soon. But in truth it was simply a lack of desirable partners that stayed him.

He and Elladan had decided tastes in their bedmates and those tastes diverged despite their twinship. Whilst his brother enjoyed buxom _ellith_ and brawny _ellyn_ , he gravitated to the opposite. Utmost litheness, ethereal beauty and the sweetest of countenances drew his attention. More so if such seemingly fragile qualities housed a strong heart and will. 

Nothing was guaranteed to catch his eye as surely as a willowy archer with a deadly aim or a lissome maid of sharp wit. Such comely specimens of Elfkind were not unusual, but they were not in abundance either particularly with the steady departure of many Elf-women for the Undying Lands.

If he was less inclined these days to take anyone in pleasure it was because so few called to his heart as well. To Elrohir, the act of coupling was most gratifying only when the hearts of both partners were also engaged to some extent. It did not have to be true love. But there had to be some affection, even that which friends and comrades-in-arms shared.

He turned when he heard Elladan enter, clad in a bathing-robe, his midnight locks clinging damply to his neck and shoulders. Unlike in Rivendell, private bathing chambers were a luxury here. Only the king had one attached to his chamber, yet even he made frequent use of the pavilion’s common baths. 

Elrohir raised a questioning eyebrow when Elladan reached into the wooden wardrobe that stood against one side of their room and pulled out, not night-clothing, but a shirt and a pair of long breeches.

“Spending the night elsewhere, _gwaniuar_?”—older twin—he remarked.

Elladan smirked as he pulled on his clothes. “I have finally gained the acquiescence of the lusty Aelind,” he informed his brother. “Think you I would pass up this chance to tumble that wench?”

Elrohir snorted and shook his head. She was the second daughter of Seregon, one of Thranduil’s captains. His many children were very alike to him, strapping males and chesty females, rarities amongst Elf-kind. And all were still unattached. Small wonder Elladan was bent on bedding each and every one of them. He had already seduced a couple of said maid’s brothers and her eldest sister during previous visits.

“You are insatiable,” he mildly chided.

“And you are in dire need of a bedding yourself,” Elladan retorted.

“I pride myself in being selective,” Elrohir reminded him.

Elladan chuckled. “Just take care you do not wither from want of attention to that part of your anatomy,” he commented.

“And just take care that you do not unravel the treaty on account of too much attention to yours,” Elrohir rejoined swiftly. “Really, Elladan, whatever will Seregon say when he learns you have skewered nearly half his brood and will likely take on the rest ere he can marry them off?”

“He will say I have impeccable taste and then thank the Powers that someone has paid court to his unruly litter,” Elladan said smugly.

Elrohir had to laugh then. He could not gainsay Elladan there. Seregon’s clutch was a lively one and oft times in not so pleasant ways. His sons were known for their rabble-rousing, his daughters for fishwife vaporing.

“Go on your way then,” he snorted. “I suppose ‘tis your way of storing up for the drought that is to follow.”

Elladan raised amused eyebrows at him. “Not so much a drought for me as for you, _tôr neth_ ”—younger brother—he pointed out. “There is all of Gondor after all to fill my needs.”

Elrohir rolled his eyes. “Have a good night—asleep or not.”

Elladan chuckled and left the room. Elrohir, on the other hand, snuffed out the candles on the writing desk, leaving only one solitary taper on his bedside table alight. He was just slipping beneath the covers of his bed when he heard something. From the balcony.

Swift as a cat, he snatched up the long white knife he always kept close by and leaped to his feet in one rolling motion. He was in the heart of the Woodland Realm but one never knew where danger could strike. One never took security for granted. Not in these times.

“Elrohir, ‘tis only me!” cried a familiar voice.

The twin sighed and returned the knife to its place beneath his pillow. He waited for the owner of the voice to make his appearance. A moment later, a pair of bright sapphire eyes peered guiltily around the jamb of the balcony door.

“How many times have I told you ‘tis perilous to creep up on a warrior?” Elrohir said somewhat tartly. “I could have sliced you up and asked questions too late.”

Legolas came into the room looking quite abashed. He was clad as Elrohir for sleeping, his slender child’s frame emphasized by the softness of his bed-shirt and trousers.

“I am sorry,” he said. “But I truly meant to warn you ere I entered.”

“I should hope so,” Elrohir remarked. “And just why did you come by way of the balcony when ‘tis so much more civilized to pass through a door?”

“But not as much fun,” Legolas piped up, a grin beginning to crease his lips. “Or as exciting.”

“Exciting?”

“Aye, to see how long it would take before you noted my presence!”

Elrohir tried to look stern but in the face of Legolas’s merry demeanor, he could not maintain his grim countenance. With a resigned sigh, he smiled and reached out a welcoming hand. At once, the young prince hastened to him and was soon seated atop his lap.

“So, why have you come here and at such an hour?” Elrohir questioned, brushing shining strands of silky hair from the child’s face.

“To be with you,” Legolas promptly answered. “You spent the entire evening with _Ada_ , Gilfaron and Denilos and scarcely a minute with me.”

“I know,” Elrohir admitted. “But there were matters of import that had to be discussed ere Elladan and I could turn our thoughts to leisure.”

Legolas pouted. “Am I not a matter of import to you?” he asked a little dolefully.

Elrohir stared at him, somewhat taken aback by the Elfling’s contention. “You are, _pen neth_ ”—young one—he assured Legolas. “‘Tis just that other matters must take precedence whether we wish it or not. You know you are ever part of my reason to come to Mirkwood.” He stroked the prince’s cheek tenderly. “Sometimes my sole reason.”

Legolas beamed happily at this evidence of his beloved Elf-knight’s regard for him. “I wish I could visit Imladris,” he said wistfully. “I would go for no other reason than to see you, _rochir vell_.”—dear knight.

Elrohir gazed warmly at his woodland friend. “Some day, you will come to my home,” he said. “When our lands are in true accord, I will have the pleasure of welcoming you to the Last Homely House.”

Legolas’s response was to snuggle even more adamantly into Elrohir’s arms. He nuzzled the base of the warrior’s throat, knowing how ticklish the latter was in that specific area. Sure enough, Elrohir soon laughed and tried to draw away.

“You are wicked to torment me so,” he scolded the Elfling with spurious umbrage.

Legolas snickered and pressed his nose even harder against Elrohir’s neck, eliciting the desired effect of having the twin chuckling helplessly. They both fell back upon the bed, Legolas gleefully straddling Elrohir as a victorious warrior would his defeated foe.

“Do you surrender?” he demanded impishly.

“I surrender,” Elrohir chortled. “Now do let me up, Legolas. Valar, but you are getting heavy!”

“I am not!” the Elfling protested as he clambered off the twin.

“But you are,” Elrohir said, sitting up. He fondly ruffled Legolas’s hair. “You are growing up so fast, _lass dithen_.”—little leaf.

To his surprise, Legolas suddenly frowned with distress. “Will I be much grown up by the time you come back?” he asked woefully.

“What do you mean?” Elrohir asked, puzzled.

“I heard you and Elladan,” the little Elf said. “He mentioned Gondor. That is in the south, isn’t it?” Elrohir nodded, now sobered himself. “Why are you going there?”

Elrohir took him upon his lap again before explaining. “No king rules in Gondor today. ‘Tis the Stewards who will reign over those lands until the king returns. My _adar_ knew much about Mardil, he who took up its rule after Eärnur’s demise. Gondor was in good hands while he held the white rod. But now he, too, has joined his fathers and his son, Eradan, is the new Steward. We need to know what kind of man he is and how the southern kingdom will fare under him.”

“But why?” Legolas persisted. “Gondor is so far away. What does it have to do with you?”

“Much, little one,” Elrohir said quietly. “The kings of Gondor and Arnor were close kin. If there is any who may claim the throne of Gondor some day, ‘twill be one of Isildur’s heirs. Heirs my father will foster henceforth in Imladris.”

Legolas pondered this silently. At length, he sighed and looked up at the warrior. “When will you return?” he asked. When Elrohir failed to respond at once, his eyes widened in alarm. “Why can you not answer?” he gasped. “Will you be away so long?”

Elrohir clutched the now tearful Elfling to him. “I fear that is so, Legolas,” he murmured. “‘Tis not a matter of observing what passes down south in a mere year or two. And we shall visit not only Minas Tirith, but all the fiefs as well. ‘Twill be hard travelling for many a year and oft under guise.”

A distinct sniffle reached his ears and he held Legolas more snugly. The slender arms were wrapped tightly around him, the lithe body pressed flush against him, their forms so close that in the dim light they seemed as one.

“I will miss you,” Legolas said mournfully.

“I will miss you, too,” Elrohir whispered. “But I will keep in touch with you, _pen neth_. I swear I will send you letters as oft as I can.”

“But ‘tis not the same as having you here,” Legolas sniffed. “Why do you have to go, Elrohir? Can’t someone else take your place?”

“No other Elves look as we do who could pass as Men with a little effort,” Elrohir said. “Aranarth will come with us for a space, but he cannot leave his people without guidance for too long.” 

He lifted the princeling’s chin with a finger and looked into limpid but watery eyes. “I was born to perform certain duties as you were, Legolas,” he murmured. “You are a prince of this realm and one day, you will be called upon to serve your father and people in whatever way you are able. And you will not always like the manner of that service, but you will do it nonetheless and do it well.”

A tear trickled down one rounded cheek. Elrohir tenderly wiped it away with his thumb. Finally, lips quivering, Legolas nodded and pressed his face into the twin’s warm chest.

“May I stay with you tonight?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course, little one,” Elrohir murmured. “And every night until we leave if you so wish.”

Eyes bright with unshed tears lifted to him. “I do,” Legolas whispered. “Will Elladan mind?”

“Nay, he will not mind,” Elrohir said. A twitch of his mouth betrayed the humor that limned his next words. “He may not even spend enough time here to know your presence.”

He did not try to explain that cryptic reply to the puzzled Elfling. Best to leave such matters unspoken until Legolas was much older.

“You will not forget me, Elrohir?” Legolas said pleadingly.

“Of course not, _penen vell_ ”—my dear one—Elrohir replied soothingly. “The question is whether _you_ will still remember me when I return.”

Legolas’s embrace tightened even further. “I will remember you, I promise!” he exclaimed with innocent fervor. “I could never forget you, Elrohir. You will always be my best friend.”

Elrohir pressed a gentle kiss to Legolas’s smooth brow. He said no more but lay down on the bed and drew the young prince into the curve of his body to nestle in his arms. Despite his distress, the little Elf did not long resist the call of sleep and soon drifted into repose. But it was long before Elrohir did the same as he watched over his precious charge.

It would indeed be many years ere he returned home. He had not told Legolas the whole truth—that he and Elladan had reckoned their sojourn in Gondor would most likely take a decade or even more. He could only hope that Legolas would succeed in keeping his pledge and not forget him during the ensuing years. Or deem their great friendship with less regard than he did now.

That would be the most painful price of all for the sake of duty. One he was not certain he could bear to pay.

****************************  
Glossary:  
ellith – Elf-maids  
ellyn – male Elves  
Ada - Papa  
adar - father

_To be continued…_


	4. Serendipity

_Iavas_ , T.A. 2101  
The Mirkwood Elves were fierce and valorous. But in the face of the superior numbers of their foes, it was only a matter of time before the small contingent was bested. Yet the Wood-elves were tenacious and refused to surrender despite the hopelessness of their cause. Their youthful leader rallied them repeatedly, the young Elf steadfastly ignoring the relentless aching of his arms, the throbbing in his legs.

“Stand!” he cried out whenever one or another of his Elves would waver. “Stand fast!”

It should have been easy to take down the youth, so slender and fragile did he seem. But his appearance belied his strength and skill and the indomitable spirit that kept him going as the orcs who sought to vanquish him discovered to their rue. Still and all, even he had his limits and he was fast approaching it.

Legolas felt despair encroach on him at last. His arms seemed naught but a mass of pained nerves, his knees yearned to give out. He knew this was the end. It was just a matter of seconds before they all succumbed. Well, better to die now than live and endure torment a while longer, he thought dazedly as he managed to fend off yet another hewing blow to his abdomen and stab his opponent in the gut. 

He caught sight of one of his warriors thrown down by a hard knock to his head. He raced toward the hapless Elf and just barely blocked the descending blow of the goblin that had felled him. But another sliced open his arm just above his elbow and he could not help a harsh cry.

Salvation came when it was least expected. He had fallen to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm, awaiting the killing blow of the orc who towered over him when the creature suddenly screeched and dropped his black sword. Legolas stared in dumbfounded silence at the arrow that stuck right through the chest of the orc. The goblin toppled over a moment later.

The woodland prince could only scrabble out of the way as a whole troop of mounted warriors arrived, swords hacking at the suddenly dismayed orcs, spears skewering those that attempted to flee. Legolas woozily watched as the newcomers mowed down the goblins with frightening efficiency. These were seasoned warriors, he realized. But he could not tell who they were.

Unlike the Wood-elves in their green and brown raiment, these soldiers were clad in black and grey. Even their hooded cloaks were stone hued. And not a single steed sported a coat brighter than darkest brown. The better to blend in with the dull autumnal landscape of the vast plains between the foothills of Hithaeglir and Mirkwood.

In what seemed like mere minutes, the orcs had been defeated and the strangers were dismounting to finish off any that still moved. They also began to look over the Wood-elves, seeking the wounded amongst them. Legolas stared in shock when some let down their hoods.

Elves! But from which realm? He started when one approached him, a grim expression on his face.

“Are you their captain?” the Elf asked brusquely. Indeed, he sounded rather hostile despite his people’s rescue of the Wood-elves.

Legolas nodded. “We thank you for your aid,” he began, struggling to rise.

He gasped in pain when the Elf none too gently grabbed him by his injured arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Move faster, Wood-elf,” he snapped. “Our captain wishes to speak to you.”

He began to drag Legolas forward, coldly oblivious of the young Elf’s obvious pain and fatigue.

“Wait!” Legolas implored. “I will go with you but—“

“Silence, _Edhel_!” the warrior retorted. “If you had any sense, you would not have left your accursed forest! You are fortunate we troubled to help you at all.”

He forged forward even more quickly. Legolas could only helplessly stumble behind him.

“ _Daro!_ ” Stop!

Legolas stared at the tall Elf who rapidly neared them. The troop captain by the looks of his demeanor. Nothing else marked him as such for his raiment was as dark and plain as those of the others.

“Release him!” he barked as soon as he came up to them. Legolas’s captor obeyed at once.

Shorn of the hold on his arm, Legolas found he could not stay up any longer and he sank to his knees, wincing as his arm throbbed mercilessly. He looked up warily as the commanding Elf confronted the other who appeared to be his lieutenant.

“He is not the enemy,“ he said sternly. “And if you look closely at him, you would realize he was not even born at the time of your father’s lamentable encounter with the Wood-elves. Would you vent your spleen on this youngling for something that happened nigh five centuries ago?”

Legolas’s heart started to race as he listened to the captain. That voice! Nearly a score of years had passed since he’d last heard it but, by Elbereth, he knew it!

“Besides, this one was injured defending his men,” the captain continued. “He does not deserve rough treatment from anyone, least of all fellow _Edhil_.” He paused to let his words sink into his chastened second’s head. “We will encamp here tonight,” he said after a while and in a kinder tone. “Secure the area as best as you can. I will tend to this young one’s wound.”

Legolas watched the lieutenant stride off. And then he looked searchingly at the captain who stood over him, his countenance hidden by his hood.

“Elrohir?” he whispered.

The Elf started then drew back his hood to reveal wondering argent eyes. Legolas would have wept with joy at seeing so dear a face once more were it not for the presence of the Imladrin soldiers.

“Do I know you, _pen neth_?”—young one—the Elf-knight asked frowningly.

“I should think so,” Legolas smiled wanly. “The question is whether _you_ still remember _me_ , _rochir vell_.”—dear knight.

Elrohir all but gaped at him in his shock. Despite the passage of years, the picture he had carried in his mind of his woodland friend had been that of the child he had been. Not the Elf he had become. And certainly not this so very comely Elf!

“Legolas!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees.

With a relieved sigh, Legolas sank into the Elf-knight’s embrace, resting his weary head on one broad shoulder.

“By all that’s holy, what are you doing out here?” Elrohir murmured, cradling him gently in his arms.

“‘Tis a long story,” Legolas confessed. “And not a pleasant one.”

Elrohir backed him up gently to a scarred tree that he might sit and lean against it. “Then you will tell me after I have seen to your wound,” he said as he took out his pouch of medicaments and bandages. “Valar, of all the places I had thought to see you again, ‘twas certainly not here.”

Legolas looked at him searchingly. “Your last letter two years ago mentioned you would be coming home soon,” he commented. “But you did not say when.”

Elrohir heard the unspoken question. _Why did you not come to me as soon as you returned?_ He shook his head as he unwound a length of binding.

“Elladan and I only arrived this summer,” he told the prince. “I wanted to visit you soonest but orkish incursions into our lands kept us busy.” He paused to cup Legolas’s chin. “I would have forced a visit to Mirkwood after finishing this patrol if not for this chance encounter. Think you I would break my pledge to you, _lass dithen_?”—little leaf.

At the use of the old appellation, Legolas beamed happily. “You cannot call me that any longer, Elrohir,” he said. “I am grown now.”

Elrohir laughed softly as he proceeded to cut away Legolas’s sleeve and set to cleaning the gash on his arm. “Grown some mayhap,” he remarked whilst swiftly washing the wound. “But not completely. You are still a dozen years from your majority, _pen neth_.”

“Aye, I have not yet come of age. Yet I have been leading such sorties for many a year now,” Legolas told him proudly, wincing somewhat as the twin applied a thin paste of healing herbs to his wound.

“You look it,” Elrohir acknowledged.

Indeed, the evidence of the prince’s years in the field showed in the sleek muscles that belied his slender limbs and form and the slightly calloused fingers of his archer’s hands. And his eyes were no longer as innocent as Elrohir had known them. A twinge of regret passed through the twin that he should have missed such a vital part of the prince’s growing years. He finished binding the wound then looked the archer over for other injuries.

“‘Tis the only wound,” Legolas assured him.

Elrohir nodded then glanced up to check how things were going. He saw that the cooking fires had been lit. He looked back at the archer.

“Rest now, _meldiren_ ”—my friend—he said. “When we have eaten our fill, you shall tell me why you dared to leave the confines of Mirkwood.” He noted the shadow of shame in the prince’s eyes. “Do not hide anything from me, Legolas,” he softly intoned. “You once trusted me in all things. I pray that has not changed after all these years.”

Legolas gazed at him. The shame receded to be replaced by the trust of old. “I will tell you all,” he promised.

The Imladrin Elves had fresh meat with them and dried fruit and ale besides. They shared these with the Wood-elves, taking their cue from Elrohir who glowered at them if they displayed the slightest bit of disdain toward their Silvan kindred. Whatever grudges they might have held against the Wood-elves they set aside for the moment. One only went against the Lord Elrohir’s wishes at one’s peril. The younger twin would not hesitate to deal a painful and public buffet if any disobeyed his orders.

Legolas tiredly but gratefully consumed all that Elrohir offered him. He could not remember the last hearty meal he’d had. His obvious hunger did not go unnoticed.

Elrohir watched him anxiously then observed the other Wood-elves as well. Something was not right, he mused. They seemed thinner than was normal for any Silvan Elf. More drawn. It did not seem possible but he almost suspected that Legolas and his men had not been eating properly for a while now. The very idea made his stomach clench.

He smiled when Legolas sighed with contentment upon downing the last piece of dried fruit. He urged the prince to drink his fill of ale before attempting to discover what was amiss amongst the Mirkwood Elves.

Legolas looked at him long and longingly after he had settled wearily against the tree once more.

“I did not think it would be nigh twenty years before you would return, Elrohir,” he softly said. “You led me to believe that—” Legolas did not finish his sentence lest his friend mistake it for an accusation.

The Elf-knight drew a pensive breath as he watched the young Elf bite his lip. “Forgive me, Legolas,” he said. “I did not want to burden you then with the knowledge.” He reached up and caressed the prince’s cheek regretfully. “I hope you will not hold this against me.”

Legolas turned his face into the twin’s hand and nuzzled it. “Nay, I am only so happy you are returned at last,” he murmured.

Elrohir moved closer and sat by his side. “Will you tell me now what lured you out here?” he asked. “Indeed, I would know why you and your folk seem to be ailing. You have not been eating well, have you?”

His anxiety grew when a faint blush stained Legolas’s cheeks. A blush of the shame he’d exhibited earlier.

“Mirkwood has been barren for many a month now,” the prince said in a low voice. “There has not been enough game to feed my people adequately. Or grain or fruit or even edible wild growth.”

“A famine?” Elrohir breathed in near horror. He caught up Legolas’s too slender wrist and held the prince’s hand tightly in his.

Legolas nodded. “We have scoured the whole forest. We even braved the spiders’ breeding grounds. But they are starving, too, and have taken to preying rabidly on my people for sustenance.”

“What caused it?” Elrohir queried. “Do you know?”

Legolas shrugged. “Most likely lingering pestilence from Dol Guldur. ‘Tis not the first time the forest has suffered from a dearth of beasts and produce since its master fled. But this has been by far the worst year of all.”

Elrohir frowned. “Did you not seek aid from Esgaroth?” he said. “You have traded with them before.”

Legolas sighed disconsolately. “A plague struck Esgaroth earlier this year that took the lives of many. It started right after our last contact with the Lake-men. They came to believe that we brought the disease with us and so have refused to deal with us since.” He swallowed hard. “Our straits worsened until we were forced to forage outside of Mirkwood and seek trade with the settlements in the west.”

The color in his cheeks darkened to crimson. In humiliation, Elrohir knew. Suddenly, his mind formed a vision of the proud Wood-elves travelling perforce from village to village, trading whatever they could for provenance from the less amiable humans who’d settled in the sparse woods west of the great forest or along the banks of Anduin. The image made him sick to his belly.

The Silvan Elves rarely had dealings with these Men for fearsome superstitions about the _Edhil_ were rife amongst them and they tended to be hostile to the Firstborn. They did not see the Elves’ beauty or nobility but only perceived what they considered the unnatural and unfair bounties bestowed upon them. And so, unlike most other mortals, they looked at the Elves with envy and covetousness. They would not go so far as to waylay and rob them but they would have no compunction about cheating them if they could.

Elrohir glanced at the horses of the Wood-elves. Aside from the little game they had taken down during their trek—a clutch of pheasant and partridge, some hare and squirrel and a young buck—small sacks hung from the rumps of the beasts. He could guess their contents. Dried grain and fruit. Mayhap salt-cured meat such as ham and bacon. 

He could only imagine what Legolas had had to endure to gain these and what he must have been forced to pay for them. The twin did not doubt that what the Wood-elves had received was most likely not commensurate at all to what they had traded for them in turn. But in their desperation, they would not have had much choice but to swallow their anger and accept what was offered in exchange. And still it would not be enough for an entire realm of Elves however small—they would probably ration it as stringently as possible. He shuddered inwardly at the image in his mind of Legolas humbling himself for such paltry recompense.

He gazed at Legolas in compassion and empathy. The prince’s eyes suddenly gleamed with tears. Elrohir caught his breath. Of a sudden, the child of years gone by was before him once more, seeking his succor and approval.

He swept Legolas into a warm hug, though careful to leave the injured limb untouched. “Ah, _pen vell_ , you should not have had to bear this burden,” he said.

“I did what was demanded of me,” Legolas murmured, nuzzling his face against the warrior’s shoulder.

He smiled even more contentedly when Elrohir’s hold on him tightened and the Elf-knight stroked his hair tenderly. With an ease born of their deep regard for each other, they fell back into the old habits of yore when Legolas had been but a child and Elrohir his favored champion.

But times were different and they were different. Legolas most of all. Whether Elrohir wished it or not, the prince was no longer an Elfling to cuddle and kiss as he’d once done. It would not be seemly to behave as they had twenty years ago. Elrohir noted the questioning frowns his men exchanged at their too open display of affection. Frowns mirrored in the faces of the Wood-elves. With Legolas still in his minority, it was definitely unseemly. And with the young prince blooming into such astonishing incandescent beauty, doubly so.

Reluctantly, he pulled away from the young Elf and gazed at him regretfully. Legolas began to protest but a warning flicker of Elrohir‘s eyes told him the tale. He flushed slightly then pursed his lips in distress.

“Does this mean I can no longer be close to you?” he whispered, the merest quiver in his voice.

“Not in public, no,” Elrohir affirmed. “But by ourselves we can be as free as we wish. I begrudge putting distance between us in the name of propriety as well but it would not do for others to form the wrong idea about my intentions regarding you.”

Legolas snorted. “As though one as noble as you would bed a youngling!” he muttered. “Really, folk can have the most ludicrous notions!”

Elrohir smiled, pleased by the spirited response. “Aye, unfortunately,” he agreed. He regarded Legolas curiously. “One thing puzzles me,” he said. “Why did you not send for help from Imladris? My father would have succored you at once.”

Legolas looked away, the stain returning to his cheeks. “My people could not have borne that,” he whispered. “The treaty—there has been a resumption of some hostility between your folk and mine.”

Elrohir scowled. “Aye, so _Adar_ told us when we arrived,” he said. “But for it to prevent you from seeking aid of us—!” He shook his head angrily. “This rancor between our peoples must cease once and for all! I will not have you and yours suffering because of this, Legolas. Sweet Eru, you might have died today had we not happened to come this way.”

Struck anew by the realization that he had nearly lost his dear woodland friend, Elrohir cast discretion aside and pulled Legolas back into his protective arms. Delighted, Legolas snuggled into the embrace and tucked his head into the crook of Elrohir’s neck. Ignoring the surreptitious glances turned their way, they spoke softly of the past two decades, recounting to each other a little of what had passed in their years apart.

It was when he was urging Legolas to lie down and get some sleep that inspiration came to Elrohir.

“I will have supplies sent to you as soon as I return to Imladris,” he decided. “And more ere winter sets in.”

Legolas looked up at him with a frown. “My people would never accept charity,” he said. “Not from you at any rate.”

“But it does not have to be charity,” Elrohir pointed out. “You can trade with us in the same manner that you did with the mortals.”

“Trade?” Legolas repeated incredulously. “Whatever do we have that you could possibly want?”

Elrohir reached over for the prince’s bow. He hefted it with a grin. “You craft the best bows in the north; only Lórien can match you. The few warriors of Imladris and Lindon who possess Mirkwood bows keep them with great care and pride for they know their worth.” He fingered Legolas’s cape next. “And then there is your wool and also the tapestries your women create.”

Legolas stared at him. “You must be jesting!” he said.

“Nay, I am not. Your wool is the finest of all. So light but soft and warm and dyed so masterfully their colors never fade. And are you aware that there is a Silvan tapestry in the Hall of Fire in my home?” When Legolas shook his head, Elrohir chuckled. “‘Twas your parents’ wedding gift to mine. Your father was no friend of theirs but he thought it politic to acknowledge my parents’ marriage with a present. That tapestry is admired by all who see it and many ask how they may likewise acquire such a beauteous piece for themselves.”

Legolas’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “Truly, Elrohir?” he said. “Your people covet such things of us?”

“Aye, _ernilen_ ”—my prince—he assured him. “For such treasures, they would gladly provide you with all the grain and meat you could ask for. What say you? I will have _Adar_ word the letter that will accompany the supplies in such a way that will make it clear ‘tis strictly to trade for your goods in turn. Do you think your father will accept such terms?”

Legolas nodded in elation. “He would indeed and so will our folk. ‘Twould be a fair exchange. They would not lose face over this.” He flung his arms around Elrohir in gratitude. “This will save my people, Elrohir! Ah, how can I ever repay you?”

Elrohir laughed softly as he hugged close his armful of affectionate Wood-elf. “With your friendship, Legolas,” he quietly replied. “Your never-ending regard.”

Legolas drew away and looked near adoringly at him, eyes shining brightly. “You will always have it, my Elf-knight,” he said.

“Then I am content,” Elrohir murmured. “Now lie and get some sleep, _lass dithen_. Your arm needs mending and rest will help it heal more swiftly.”

Legolas readily lay down and, as he had done as a child, curled up insistently against Elrohir. Unwilling to move away and chance making the prince think himself rejected, the warrior chose to glare his men into looking elsewhere instead. 

They could misconstrue his relationship with the archer all they wished. He would set them straight on the matter tomorrow. But tonight, Legolas needed him and, after so many years away from his young friend, he would not fail him.

*********************************  
Glossary:  
iavas – Sindarin for early autumn, roughly August to September  
Hithaeglir – the Misty Mountains  
Edhel (pl. Edhil) – Elf  
pen vell – dear one

_To be continued…._


	5. Deepening

Events and affairs moved swiftly after the timely rescue of the Mirkwood contingent by the Imladrin troop. True to his word, as soon as he reached Rivendell, Elrohir arranged for a plentiful supply of provenance to be sent to the Woodland Realm. With the bounty was a formally worded letter from Elrond requesting in exchange a goodly number of bows, a sampling of the Wood-elves’ renowned tapestries and a staggering quantity of bolts of wool. The last was not surprising for winter was approaching. Elves were amazingly resistant to cold weather but it did not mean they did not appreciate keeping warm in the midst of a blistering winter either.

Elrond wisely sent a party of handpicked envoys led by Erestor to deliver the goods. These Elves were the most dispassionate of his people—they were not inclined to hold grudges, cling to prejudices or pick a fight because of some perceived insult to their honor. They presented the Imladrin supplies with just the right amount of pride to elicit the Wood-elves’ respect, yet with enough humility to avoid embarrassing their beleaguered hosts even further.

Within the week, they were on their way back to Rivendell with their wagonloads of Mirkwood goods and an escort of woodland soldiers to ensure they arrived at their destination safe and sound. And to witness the Imladrin Elves’ reaction to said Mirkwood goods.

For Thranduil had not only sent the finest bows, wool and tapestries to be had. They were also the handsomest bows, the softest, warmest wool and the most delicately and intricately embroidered tapestries the forest kingdom had to offer. The effort paid off.

The Elvenking’s soldiers returned ere the cold season set in with stories that not only increased the Wood-elves’ pride in their work, but also warmed their hearts in the middle of one of the most brutal winters to hit northern Middle-earth.

When word got out that the woodland goods had arrived, Elves from all over the vale converged on the Last Homely House’s shaded courtyard. The Silvan soldiers could only gawk when several Noldorin warriors nigh came to blows over the coveted bows. Only Glorfindel’s intervention brought the incipient scuffle to a halt. The wool was swiftly snapped up by the valley’s drapers, tailors and seamstresses—not so much as a swatch of fabric was left by the time they were done. And the most uncivil exchanges occurred between various Elven nobles over the limited selection of tapestries. There simply had not been enough to go around and more than one Elf-lady got into a quarrel over who had gotten her hands on which tapestry first.

But tales were not the only things the soldiers brought back with them. Along with more laden drays of foodstuff—enough to see the Wood-elves through winter—were several cases of warming _miruvor_ and a long list of orders for the coming spring. Not only for several bows for the Grey Havens as well, but also the short yet wicked knives the Wood-elves sported. Not just for extra wool, but also lengths of brightly hued falding and sendal, which the woodland Elves wove and spun with peerless skill. And more of the highly prized tapestries were needed to stave off petty feuds, which looked likely to burgeon between the few fortunate haves and the more numerous have-nots. Last but not least was a request from Elrond and his healers for aromatic angelica-root, perilous belladonna and dried leaf of soothing chamomile, for these medicinal plants grew in abundance in the compost-enriched soil of post-winter Mirkwood.

It proved to be one of the harshest winters in memory but, thanks to Rivendell’s aid, the Woodland Realm survived it.

By the time Elrond’s sons visited Mirkwood the following summer, the forest had come alive once more, the plague had ended in Esgaroth and with it the fear of the Lake-men, and the long-held dislike and suspicion the Wood-elves harbored against their Eldarin kind had finally began to erode.

They no longer treated the brethren with the chilly civility of old. True, they remained reserved, but warmth had crept into that reserve. All knew that they owed their survival to the younger twin’s judicious intervention. And the memory of the Rivendell envoys negotiating with their king with heartfelt deference and utmost diplomacy also blunted the edges of their earlier hostility. Their Noldorin cousins had succored them in their extreme need and in such a manner as to spare them further shame. Mayhap it would not be such a terrible thing to treat for a more lasting and sincere peace between their tribes.

Within the year, a new treaty came into being, this time with less belligerence on either side to mar its ratification. A three-year later, Thranduil invited Elrond and his family to Mirkwood to attend the springtime wedding of his daughter Celebrethil. Elrond returned the gesture and asked the Elvenking and his handsome brood to come to Imladris for the much-awaited harvest festival.

There was no more felicitous sight than that of Elrohir welcoming Legolas to his home at long last. None looked askance at Thranduil’s fifth-born all but flying into the warm arms of Elrond’s younger son, the widest of smiles lighting up his face. What they had once shared in spite of their respective people’s grudging tolerance could now flourish unimpeded and with the approval of most.

This was not to say that all was good and trouble-free between the Woodland Realm and its Eldarin counterparts. Centuries of distrust and restrained strife lay between them. It would take the passage of perhaps as many more years to finally lay all the old quarrels to rest once and for all. But at least, the Elves were truly at peace. They now talked civilly, even amiably, where once they were apt to throw verbal punches at each other at first sight.

None were as pleased by this turn of events as the Elf-lord and woodland prince whose remarkable friendship had started it all.

* * * *

Imladris, _lairë_ T.A. 2158  
Blades crossed and clashed repeatedly while their wielders swung, parried and thrust, their lissome forms turning, dodging and leaping with almost unbelievable grace to the admiration of the small crowd of warriors, maidens and sundry valley-dwellers who had gathered about the drill yard of the Last Homely House to watch them spar. The older, raven-tressed Peredhel moved with a nimble deliberateness born of long experience with adversity, while the younger, fair-haired Wood-elf evinced the barely suppressed exuberance of one not yet rendered all that guarded by countless encounters with foes bent on his ruination.

But the promise of excellence was already clearly apparent in Mirkwood’s youngest prince. Even as he challenged Legolas to do his best, Elrohir took great pride in the knowledge that his friend would be a formidable warrior; one of the finest Middle-earth would ever come to know. He would be a match for the most seasoned Elf-soldiers, even the brethren themselves who were renowned throughout Elfdom for their prowess in battle.

Forty-eight years had passed since Legolas first set foot in the fabled valley of Rivendell. Since then, the prince had visited as oft as he could, enchanted as he was with the twins’ home. Here the land lay open to the sky, the trees did not sprout cloyingly close to each other and the air remained fresh and sweet-scented no matter where one stood. The shadow did not lie on Imladris as it did on Mirkwood, pestilence did not cripple the lives of Elf, beast or vegetation, and hideous monsters did not roam its hidden pathways to prey on unwary victims. Indeed, so enamored was he of the valley that he would have celebrated his coming of age here had it not been an impolitic thing to do.

As such, Elrond’s family and household doted on him and he in turn regarded them all with much affection. Even Arwen whom he thought a tad too stately and serious compared to her brothers. Still, she was their beloved sister and that was enough reason for him to esteem her as well.

They ended their morning’s exercise with Elrohir showing Legolas where he still needed improvement. The younger twin knew the archer required no further prodding. Legolas would follow his instructions with zeal and master his lessons within the shortest time imaginable. It was typical of the prince to throw himself wholeheartedly into any thing he chose to undertake.

A muted rumble caught the Elf-knight’s attention. He glanced up and noted the swift approach of grey clouds. While their audience hastily dispersed, he motioned to Legolas to return to the house. Sudden summer squalls were not unheard of in the vale and this one looked to be a particularly forceful one.

As Legolas caught up with him, he could not help perusing him with some wonder. Such moments struck him when he least expected it when he realized all over again the near perfection of his friend’s features and form. In a few more years, Legolas might well be hailed as the fairest _ellon_ ever to grace Middle-earth. Elrohir could not recall any other as luminously beautiful or deceptively fragile-looking, yet blessed with the agility and strength, sleek thews and steely grace of a full-fledged male warrior Elf.

Legolas noticed his regard. It was not the first time he had observed Elrohir studying him so intently. He slowed down, compelling Elrohir to do likewise. He looked at the Elf-knight curiously

“Why do you look at me thusly, Elrohir?” he inquired.

The twin started slightly then sighed. He admitted: “‘Tis only that I am taken aback now and then by how much you have grown and how comely you have turned out.”

“You think me comely?” Legolas repeated with delight.

“Of course,” Elrohir said. “Which feels so strange considering that I watched you grow from infancy onwards. I knew long ago that you would one day be possessed of great beauty, but ‘tis still a matter of astonishment to me just how bountifully you have been blessed.”

Legolas’s smile was radiant. “Coming from you, ‘tis the highest praise and one I cherish above all,” he declared.

Elrohir looked at him bemused. “Come now, Legolas,” he protested. “All of Mirkwood sings your praises. You are more than used to receiving even more lavish flattery than mine.”

Legolas shook his head. “But not as sincere,” he pointed out. “There is always some reason for their blandishments whether ‘tis so that I may arrange for them to meet with Father, accord them some prestige by dint of my friendship or invite one of them to be the first to gain entry into my bed. But you speak only the truth with me and if you say I am comely, then I can believe that I am.”

Elrohir stared at him in some amazement. “You need to look into a mirror more frequently if you need me to tell you how beautiful you are,” he remarked. “But it saddens me that you cannot accept praise from your folk without suspecting ulterior motives in the bestowing of it.”

“Yet it is so,” Legolas said sourly. “And has become ever more rabid now that I am nearing my first century. You know how it is in Mirkwood.”

Elrohir nodded in cognizance of the tradition wherein Mirkwood had diverged quite strikingly from the other elven realms. The coming of age of any Elf was of great import because it was then that one came to be legally recognized as an adult. But it was the hundredth year that portended real change in a Mirkwood Elf’s life for it was only then that he or she could actively seek a mate whether for one passionate night’s worth of loving or an eternal lifetime. Before that age, a woodland Elf could indulge in some exploratory play, but had to refrain from the most intimate of the love acts. Just what had precipitated the practice was no longer known—its origin was lost in the deeps of time. But the Wood-elves conscientiously observed it.

The Elf-knight could just imagine the anticipation that went hand in hand with the approach of the archer’s first century. If Legolas chose to take a lover then, that Elf would not merely count it a great honor but also an enviable coup to be the one to divest Mirkwood’s youngest prince of his bodily innocence.

Elrohir shook his head in sympathy. ‘Twas no wonder his friend was not too enthusiastic about that event. How could he be when he well knew that he would be regarded as the most prized notch on someone’s belt? He would not be surprised were Legolas to choose to forego learning his bed-manners soonest than do so in an atmosphere of distrust and wariness.

He was about to comment on this when he felt a large droplet of water on his cheek. Before long, more began to splash upon him and Legolas. The dark clouds were finally releasing their contents.

“Hurry, we can still reach the house before it gets any stronger,” he told the archer.

To his surprise, Legolas grinned and pulled him back. “What is a little water, Elrohir?” he said.

Elrohir stared at him then snorted. “A little water?” he countered. “From the looks of those clouds, ‘tis a veritable cascade that is about to be unleashed on us.”

“All the better!” Legolas chortled.

A moment later, Elrohir’s prediction was fulfilled and sheets of water poured liberally from the swollen clouds. In seconds, the two were drenched to the skin. The Elf-knight looked at the archer, astonished by the other’s reaction. Legolas’s face was alight with pure delight, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Valar, Legolas, ‘tis only rain!” he remarked. “One would think you’ve never got soaked in a storm before.”

“But I have not!” Legolas gleefully informed him. At Elrohir’s look of disbelief, he added: “The canopy of the forest is so thick, the elements rarely vent their full strength on us. The last time I recall playing in the rain was nigh eighty years ago and it was no more than a heavy drizzle. Ah, Elrohir, this is wonderful!”

Elrohir shook his head in amusement, pushing the sodden mass of his dark hair from his face. He watched his young friend as the latter stretched out his arms in wild abandon and lifted his face to meet the downpour. Silver-gold hair streaming wantonly, shirt and breeches clinging to his slender form and flesh gleaming under the steady torrent, Legolas did not look so much like an Elf as he did a water sprite of children’s tales.

“And you claim to be all grown up,” he chuckled. “Anyone who sees you now would find it hard to believe that you are past your majority, _pen neth_!”

“Anyone who thinks that does not know how to have fun!” Legolas retorted with a smirk. “Including ancient Half-elves who have forgotten the joys of play!”

“Ancient!” Elrohir growled in spurious umbrage. “Watch your language, _pen dithen_!”—little one.

Legolas mock-bristled. “I will not have you calling me names, Elrohir! I am not little any longer!”

“I should hope not!” Elrohir gibed. “‘Twould be a pity for a warrior to have nothing to show for all his proficiency on the field.”

That effectively silenced Legolas if only out of puzzlement. Elrohir nearly choked on his mirth when he realized the prince had not understood his double entendre. With a guffaw, he pointedly dropped his eyes to Legolas’s crotch. The archer followed suit. A moment later, he burst out laughing.

“You are wicked of tongue!” Legolas gasped. “And here I thought only Elladan was capable of such lewd wit.”

“We are twins,” Elrohir grinned. “We may not share the same preferences in everything, but we do think alike in most.” He glanced up—the pelting rain was beginning to relent. “Come, _meldiren_. I think we’d best get into dry clothes and shoes. The housekeeping staff will not appreciate having to mop up after us all over the house.”

Legolas acquiesced but as they walked, he looked curiously at Elrohir. “In what do you differ when it comes to taste?” he queried.

Elrohir shrugged. “Very few actually,” he replied. When Legolas pressed him, he said, “Certain foods, styles of combat, lovers—”

“Lovers?” Legolas interrupted. “What do you mean?”

Elrohir snickered at his all too apparent interest, but told him nonetheless. He wondered at Legolas’s thoughtful expression afterwards. By now they had reached the house and made for the side porch that led directly to the stairs that in turn led up to their second-level bedchambers.

“I have noted Elladan’s penchant for more, shall we say, generously endowed Elves,” the archer commented as they mounted the stairs. “But I just realized that I have not seen you with anyone in all the years I have known you. I took for granted that you shared Elladan’s proclivities in bedmates.”

Elrohir snorted. “I have had more than my fill of coupling,” he said. “I do not seek it as frequently or as fervently as I used to.” He grinned faintly. “And I have always been the more discreet twin,” he added.

Legolas chortled. “I can believe that,” he conceded.

When they came to their neighboring bedchambers, Legolas suddenly turned and clasped the Elf-knight’s arm. A faint frown creased the archer’s smooth brow.

“I have been meaning to ask you,” he said. “Elladan mentioned earlier that you and he will be travelling to Gondor anon. Is this true?” When Elrohir nodded, he pursed his lips. “What for? To study another Steward?”

“Nay, this time we go because Arahael’s son Aranuir desires to visit Gondor and has requested our company and assistance,” Elrohir explained.

“You are so solicitous of your fosterlings,” Legolas commented a little tartly. “And how long will you be away this time?”

Elrohir’s eyebrows rose at the tacit reproof in the archer’s tone. “Not so long as a score of years,” he reassured his friend. “Mayhap a half-decade at most.”

Legolas sighed. “Just make sure that you get back in time for my hundredth begetting day,” he said.

Elrohir stared at him in surprise, then curled an arm around his shoulders. “You know I would not miss so important an occasion, Legolas,” he murmured. “I will be there.”

The prince gazed at him searchingly. “I will hold you to that,” he said. “‘Twill not be complete unless you are present, Elrohir.”

“I will come, _pen neth_ ,” Elrohir firmly repeated. “This I swear.”

Legolas finally smiled with some confidence. On that note, they parted for the morning. Or at least as long as it might take to change into dry clothing.

*****************************  
Glossary:  
lairë – Quenya for summer  
ellon – male Elf  
pen dithen – little one  
meldiren – my friend

_To be continued…_


	6. Request

Mirkwood, _ethuil_ T.A. 2163  
The brethren groomed their respective mounts in the stables behind the delved royal halls of Mirkwood in companionable silence. It was just two hours past noon.

Elladan and Elrohir had arrived with their parents and sister the evening before after returning to Rivendell just a month earlier following an absence of more than four years. But this was one sojourn in the Woodland Realm they could not forego, especially not Elrohir. Not unless he wished to endure Legolas’s grief for the next several years. And so, travel-worn though they were, they came to attend the celebrations marking the hundredth begetting day of Mirkwood’s youngest prince. 

The twins slipped away after the midday meal to visit their steeds. Though they trusted the efficiency and skill of the stable-master and his people, the brethren still preferred to personally attend to their warhorses. After all, said horses had accompanied them through thick and thin for many a year. They were not simply a means of transportation to Elladan and Elrohir. They were good friends as well. 

The older twin finished first and, after taking leave of his brother, made to return to the residential pavilion. Just as he was exiting the stables, however, a harassed looking Elf forestalled him—one of Thranduil’s secondary stewards. 

“My lords,” the Elf said respectfully. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I have been tasked to look for Prince Legolas. Would you by any chance know where he is?”

Elladan glanced at Elrohir who shrugged. He turned back to the flustered steward. “The last we saw him was during lunch,” he said. “He did not tell us of his plans for this afternoon.”

“Why is he needed?” Elrohir asked.

The steward sighed. “The king wishes to look over the list of guests for his begetting day feast one last time,” he explained. “He thinks the prince has left out too many important dignitaries.”

Both brothers had to chortle at this. How typical of Legolas to strike out the names of those Elves he simply could not abide. After assuring the Elf once more that they did not know the whereabouts of the archer, Elladan returned to the pavilion while the steward departed to go on with his search.

Elrohir was just returning to his chore when a whistle from behind startled him. He whirled in surprise in time to see Legolas swinging himself down from the hayloft above him.

“What in Elbereth’s name were you doing up there?” the Elf-knight demanded. “Did you not hear? Your father is looking for you.”

Legolas smirked. “Oh pish, Elrohir, ‘tis precisely why I hid. Though your coming here was a boon as well. I’d been wanting to ask for your help in something.”

“And that is?”

“Regarding my begetting day and all the attendant expectations.”

Elrohir let out an amused snort. “Meaning the hope that you will use the occasion to select your first lover,” he dryly supplied.

“Aye,” the prince scowled. “The anticipation grows more palpable every single day. Valar, Elrohir, you would think I was the only Elf ever offered up on the altar of lost virginity!”

Elrohir chuckled softly. “You are only the most comely Elf to beguile them in so many years,” he said.

“Not to mention that I am my father’s youngest child,” Legolas sniffed. 

Elrohir regarded him wonderingly. “Why so upset over this, _pen neth_?” he asked. “You need not do as they wish if ‘tis not your desire. Or have your customs so changed that you are now required to take a lover soonest?” 

Legolas shook his head. “‘Tis not demanded of me that I choose a bed-teacher come my begetting day,” he grumbled. “But it is expected of me simply because I am the king’s son. Beginning tomorrow, Father will host a number of dinners in my honor. Instead of enjoying this week’s celebrations, I will likely spend those evenings fending off overtures whether I care to dally with anyone or not!”

“I imagine you will,” Elrohir said sympathetically. “How may I help you in this, _meldiren_?”—my friend.

Legolas smiled wanly. “I need your counsel about a scheme I thought of to free me from such unwelcome attention.” At Elrohir’s encouraging gesture, he continued. “Tell me if this is wise, Elrohir. Were I to take a lover a week before the actual day—ah, do not look so worried. ‘Tis not forbidden if it is but a matter of a few days before the fact. As I was saying, were I to take a lover beforehand and let it be known thereafter that I have already been bedded, will it not keep suitors from constantly hounding me?”

Elrohir considered it then nodded. “Aye, it would,” he agreed. “At least, for the duration of your liaison with whoever you should choose. The eagerness of most stems not only from the desire to bed you, but also to be the first to do so.” At Legolas’s smile of satisfaction, he added, “However, there is one flaw in your plan.”

Legolas frowned. “And which is this?”

“It still does not address your concern that you will be treated as a mere trophy by whoever you should share your bed with,” Elrohir pointed out. “I had thought you would put off taking a lover for just that reason.”

“And I had considered putting it off,” Legolas admitted. “But it incenses me that I should defer knowing such pleasure just because I fear others’ motives. I have studied the matter quite thoroughly.” He paused then said, “There is someone who would not treat me shamefully though he knows not that I have him in mind just yet.”

Elrohir raised a sable eyebrow. “He? Then you wish to learn your bed-lessons from an _ellon_?”

Legolas nodded. “I can think of no other who would teach me as thoroughly and tenderly as he. For he is a great-heart and noble beyond compare. And he is beautiful besides and highly thought of by his past lovers not only because he more than satisfied them, but also because he truly cared for their well-being.”

Elrohir regarded him with amazement. “Do not tell me you investigated him!” he exclaimed.

“In a manner of speaking,” Legolas grinned. “There were things I did not know about him and so I set out to learn what I could of them. And what I learned increased my esteem of him. And my desire.”

“You are verily besotted with this Elf,” Elrohir commented. “Pray tell, who is this paragon you have lately discovered?”

To his surprise, Legolas suddenly colored. The prince gulped before looking him squarely in the eye. “Can you not guess?” he whispered. “‘Tis you, Elrohir.” 

Elrohir’s stared at him with widened eyes. And then he opened his mouth as if to say something, but naught issued forth. He closed his mouth abruptly, turned his head to gaze unseeingly at the far end of the stables for a while, then stared at the archer once more. He shook his head, as if trying to clear his suddenly fuzzy mind.

“There must be something wrong with my hearing,” he remarked, his voice unnaturally calm. “I thought you just asked me to bed you.”

Legolas did not know whether to laugh in amusement or groan in frustration. “You did not hear falsely,” he said earnestly if blushingly. “I do want you to bed me. To teach me all you know about the ways of loving.” He bit his lip then looked imploringly at the patently shocked Elf-knight. “I would have you as my first lover. You are the only one I can trust with my undoing. Any other I should choose would only treat me as a conquest, as you well know,” the archer added. “But you would not see me thusly. I know you would not.”

The Elf-knight let out a tense breath. “I would not indeed,” he agreed. “I would see it as a gift.” At the brightened eyes of the prince, he cautioned: “And one that should be bestowed on one of your own people. They will not be pleased to learn that a son of Imladris has bedded their youngest prince.”

Legolas smiled slyly. “Another reason to turn to you,” he quipped. But when Elrohir opened his mouth to protest, he swiftly pressed on. “But the most compelling reason for my request is you, Elrohir. I want you to be my bed-teacher. I have wanted this for so long and since you revealed to me that you and Elladan do not share the same taste in lovers, I was encouraged to ask this of you.”

Elrohir stared at him stupefied. “Why, Legolas?” he asked faintly. “Why do you feel thusly?”

“I do not know why,” Legolas said honestly. “I only know that I do. Since you came to my aid all those years ago, I have wondered what it would be like to lie with you.” He could not help a smirk when Elrohir gaped at him in astonishment. A predatory gleam appeared in his eyes. It unnerved the normally unflappable twin. “It was my greatest disappointment that my first intimacies were not with you. But I would amend that now.”

Again, the Elf-knight was reduced to silence for several moments as he struggled to digest his young friend’s appeal. When he did speak again, it was in a patently desperate bid to stall for time and get his raucous thoughts under control.

“Intimacies?” he repeated. “Then you are not as innocent as you appear, _ernilen_.”—my prince.

Legolas chortled lazily, the sound of it making it even more difficult for Elrohir to think clearly. “But I am. Only those of my age have dared indulge me, but they are as ignorant as I in the love-arts and so are useless for my purposes. I know nothing more than the most cursory of caresses. I daresay there is much more to coupling than that! I would dearly like to learn my bed-manners from you, Elrohir. Please, do not turn me down.”

The predatory gleam was now little more than a faint glimmer. But coupled with the naked want in the archer’s crystalline eyes, it was of a potency that plunged Elrohir’s thoughts and feelings into further turmoil. Especially when his body was actively abetting Legolas’s desire and urging him to do something about it.

Legolas saw the wavering in the Elf-knight’s argent gaze. He moved closer, lifting his hand to caress Elrohir’s jaw.

“Will you come to me tonight, _rochiren vell_?”—my dear knight—he whispered, his lips but a hair’s breadth from Elrohir’s own.

“Your Highness!”

With creditable equanimity, the two drew apart as soon as they heard the exasperated hail. Legolas’s eyes, however, darkened with a mixture of ire and frustration. They both turned to find the same steward who’d come a-looking for the archer earlier. Elrohir sighed with profound relief that they’d been partially shielded by his horse, else Elbereth only knew what the Elf would have thought. 

The steward glanced a little chidingly at the Elf-knight. “‘Tis fortunate I thought to come back,” he said in tacit reproach.

But Legolas came to Elrohir’s defense at once. “Nay, he did not know I was here and indeed urged me to go to my father at once. ‘Tis I who insisted on lingering.” Before the other Elf could say more, he glanced at Elrohir and said: “I pray you will give thought to what I suggested, _meldiren_.”

Elrohir nodded with spurious calm though his heart thundered once again at the reminder of the archer’s proposal. “I will think about it,” he promised.

Legolas smiled winningly. “Then mayhap I shall see you tonight, Elrohir,” he said in a voice too low for the steward to hear. “All of you.”

With that, he departed for the royal halls, the other Elf in tow, leaving Elrohir all aflame with his provocative parting words.

* * * *

Hardly had the brethren entered their shared bedchamber after their baths when Elladan pounced on his brother for enlightenment. He had noted his twin’s skittish demeanor all evening—odd for the usually oh so preternaturally serene Elrohir. And there had been what appeared to be an avoidance of Legolas’s company. Which was so unheard of as to call attention to it when it occurred. Many had wondered throughout dinner whether the two had had a falling out of sorts. 

“Elrohir, what ill has passed between you and Legolas?” he bluntly asked as soon as he’d shut the door behind him. 

Elrohir darted an almost haunted glance at him before walking out to the balcony. Elladan sat down on one of the armchairs before the hearth, leaning back to await his brother’s reply. At length, Elrohir turned to face him, his face a picture of confusion.

“No ill passed between us but only a most unlooked for—request,” he said. “I do not know what to do about it.”

“What request is this?” Elladan prodded.

Elrohir bit his lip then said: “He asked me to be his—bed-teacher.”

The older twin suddenly sat up straight and stared at him in shock. “Sweet Eru!” Elladan exclaimed. “He wants you to deflower him?”

Elrohir winced at his brother’s too blunt tongue. “Really, Elladan, must you put it that way?” he protested.

“What other way is there?” Elladan pointed out. “Oh, come now, _gwanneth_ , you are only discomfited by such language because ‘tis Legolas we speak of.” Noting the slow blush that was suffusing his twin’s face, he leaned back once more and regarded Elrohir intently. “So, Legolas has made this request of you. Why?”

Elrohir sighed and came back into the room. He sank into the chair opposite Elladan’s, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together nervously. 

“He feels he will find security and dignity in his first bedding if ‘tis I who…” Elrohir could not bring himself to complete the sentence.

“I see,” Elladan murmured. He eyed the Elf-knight wonderingly. “And what exactly are your objections to such an admittedly logical idea?”

Elrohir started then gazed at him in perturbation. He unclasped his hands and gripped the armrests of his chair. “Logical?” he echoed. “Elladan, we are talking about Legolas! I saw him born; had a part in his raising. He is friend and student and-and charge to me. And you think it reasonable for me to teach him his bed-manners? Are you mad?”

“Aye, I think it reasonable,” Elladan calmly. “And, nay, I am not mad. And neither is Legolas. I can understand why he turned to you in this. As he has always done. You gave him his life, Elrohir. Made it richer for being part of it. And, now, you will see him through an act fraught with much peril if ‘tis not taught with true regard for him. And as we all know, there is none in Mirkwood of suitable rank or age who is able to see past what he is to who he is. Well, mayhap amongst the common soldiers and folk, there are those who do but who can say that they will be able to retain that unsullied perception of him were any to gain the first privilege of entering his bed?” 

He looked at his stunned brother thoughtfully. “You must teach Legolas to be the aggressor with others and teach him well,” he commented. “Ever must he be the conqueror and not the conquest until he finally binds himself in love. Only in this manner can he preserve himself from feeling like a mere guerdon for ‘twill be he who would claim the prize. But in his first bedding, he cannot take the initiative and will therefore be at his teacher’s mercy and must depend on the other’s discretion and willingness to guard his interests. In all these, you are the perfect candidate, Elrohir. Indeed, you are the only one.” 

Elrohir stared speechlessly at the older twin for the next several seconds. “I cannot believe you actually agree with this-this lunacy,” he gasped. “Where are your wits, brother?” 

“Quite intact, I assure you,” Elladan retorted. “What of yours?”

“Whole and outraged,” Elrohir shot back.

“Then mayhap ‘tis your feelings you should closely examine, _tôren_ ”—my brother—Elladan smoothly suggested. “For in truth, I wonder about them myself.” 

“What do you mean?” Elrohir sharply queried.

“Simply this,” Elladan coolly responded. “Which will grieve you more? That you take it upon yourself to relieve Legolas of his virginity and teach him the ways of loving? Or that another should do it in your stead?”

He smiled when his brother colored deeply. “I thought so,” he murmured. “You have looked at him with different eyes since you rescued him and his men on the plains between Anduin and Mirkwood. You appreciate his comeliness for ‘tis the very kind you favor. And though you would not admit it even to yourself, you coveted it. Will you still deny it to me now?”

Elrohir let out a strangled breath at such brutal baldness. “You know I cannot deny a truth,” he said hoarsely. “But ‘twas not meet for me to think his beauty anything more than a thing to admire.”

“It was not,” Elladan said. “And I agree with your refusal to let such feelings grow whilst Legolas still approached his first century. Ever has your enviable friendship come first and only a fool would mar something so pure with something as base as untimely lust.” He looked pointedly at his twin. “But Legolas has revealed his desire and it converges with yours. I see no reason why it would be deemed unseemly should two great friends know intimacy with each other as well.”

Elrohir did not respond at once. He stared at the dancing flames in the hearth. “And what of our friendship?” he asked softly. “I would keep it, Elladan. ‘Tis a treasure beyond compare. Can we remain thusly even should we become lovers?”

“And why not?” Elladan countered. “You have bedded a few good friends before though none as dear to you as our forest prince. Have they ceased to be counted as such in your heart? Do they no longer consider you their friend because you once shared more than your hearts?” At Elrohir’s near imperceptible shake of his head, he smiled gently. “Then why should your relationship with Legolas be ruined? ‘Tis most likely that in the sharing of all that you are to each other, you will only deepen and strengthen what you already have.”

This time Elrohir made no reply but only gazed at him, the uncertainty in his silvery eyes slowly giving way to the encroachment of a momentous decision. Elladan leaned forward and gripped his knee reassuringly. 

“Seize this chance, Elrohir, this gift,” he urged his brother. “‘Tis too precious to turn away.” When Elrohir smiled faintly, his own turned distinctly rakish. He leaned back once more in his chair. “Well then, may I assume that I will have our room to myself this night?” he drawled.

Elrohir eyed him in startled exasperation before dissolving into laughter. 

******************************  
Glossary:  
ethuil – Sindarin for spring  
pen neth – young one  
ellon – male Elf  
ernilen – my prince  
gwanneth – younger twin

_To be continued…_


	7. Bedfellows

Legolas walked aimlessly about his bedchamber, lost in his thoughts. Clad in a snowy silken bed-shirt and its accompanying trousers, his shining tresses loose upon his shoulders and tumbling down his back, he looked every inch the virginal prince that he was. Virginal in body that was. For his mind was by no means innocent; ignorant mayhap of some things but innocent, no.

For too long had he pictured to himself the act in which he hoped to indulge this night. Too often had he endured sleepless nights from the onset of his unruly adolescence all the way to the moment of his joyous reunion with Elrohir on the plains outside Mirkwood. Then the sleeplessness had been replaced by dreams of such potency as to unravel him even in his sleep. And always at their center was the Elf-knight. _His_ Elf-knight.

No one had ever dared claim Elrohir as he had. No one had ever worked up the nerve save for an irrepressible Elfling with a stubborn streak in his makeup. With the passage of time, it became a natural thing for Legolas to refer to Elrohir as his. So integral to their relationship had this possessive allusion become that everyone now accepted it to the point of taking it for granted.

And Legolas had taken it for granted, too, especially during his childhood years and with much delight and self-satisfaction that it was so. That had changed when he first laid eyes on Elrohir during that fateful rescue more than three score years ago. Of a sudden, he became sharply aware of things that had always been intrinsic to the Elf-knight in heart, body and soul.

Such as his sensual grace. And his captivating gentleness. And the enticing scent that clung to his body. His tall, sleekly muscled body with its broader than usual shoulders and chest and long powerful limbs, bearing strength that was uniquely Peredhil. As was the beauty of his face. Arresting argent eyes that looked deep into your soul, a proud nose and cheekbones that bespoke an impressive noble lineage, and sinuous lips that beckoned whether they were curved in a smile, tight with ire or parted in melodious laughter.

He’d known then, even all those years ago, that no matter who else he might deign to bed, Elrohir had to be the first to unravel him, would be the only one to know him wholly and fully. He was the one Elf whose conquest he would submit to with nary a protest and long for with all the passion he possessed.

Legolas shook his head in frustration. Valar, he had lived with this yearning for so long it would surely drive him to madness if he did not quench it soon. He sighed then.

There lay his problem. He was certain Elrohir would come to him this night. But that did not necessarily herald the warrior’s acquiescence to his request. Elrohir simply would never leave him wondering—he would come whether his answer was yea or nay. And he would gently and carefully let him down if it were a nay. Legolas gritted his teeth. Ah, let it not be that, he thought fretfully.

A soft knock on his door yanked him out of his musings. Quelling the impulse to hold his breath, he hurried to the door, not even bothering to inquire as to the identity of the caller. He opened it—and stared. There was no mistaking the nature of the answer he sought.

Elrohir leaned sideways against the doorjamb, raven hair unbound for the night, arms folded across his chest. A chest that was partially exposed since he had foregone the fastening of his bed-shirt. Below, the matching trousers were slung rather low on his lean hips. Both were of a blue grey shade bordering on mauve that only served to further point up the silver of his wondrous eyes. This time, Legolas did hold his breath.

“Are you still set on this?” Elrohir quietly asked.

Wordlessly, Legolas nodded, his eyes riveted on the twin in patent fascination.

“You do realize what conclusions will be drawn from this once I step into your room,” the Elf-knight remarked, tilting his head to indicate the corridor.

Legolas looked as well and marked the surreptitious but clearly curious glances being cast their way by sundry retainers and a few noble guests whose apartments were located nearby. He suddenly smiled and found his tongue.

“All the better,” he murmured. He flicked shining eyes at the Elf-knight and held out a hand.

Elrohir straightened and took the proffered hand. Ignoring the disbelieving stares of the Elves outside, he allowed Legolas to draw him into the bedchamber.

The prince said nothing as they walked to his bed, releasing Elrohir’s hand only when they came up beside it. In truth, his insides were all a-flutter now that the moment had come. It was one thing to dream of an experience, quite another to live through it and know it in the flesh. Dreams had an elusive, distant quality to them. Reality was close and solid and far more overwhelming.

He gazed at Elrohir, unable to speak. Everything he had always imagined was about to come true yet he was no longer so certain about his fortitude, no longer calm and confident as the incessant flip-flopping in his belly evinced.

Silently, Elrohir reached for Legolas and pulled him flush against him. As the archer’s eyes glittered with mingled anticipation and apprehension, he slid a hand up and behind Legolas’s nape and drew him into the first kiss of their long acquaintance.

Legolas could not help the faint moan that fled his lips when their mouths met and melded. In none of his prior forays had he encountered the feelings Elrohir evoked in him with a simple kiss. Though the word was an egregious understatement. There was nothing simple about this kiss.

His lips were caressed with maddening sensuality, waking in him the need to press hard against the warrior. And then they were urged apart by a gentle yet peremptory swipe of the tongue. Whereupon he soon experienced the heady sensation of the pillaging of his mouth. His moans deepened and roughened. He tightened his hold on Elrohir, a mad yearning to merge himself with the twin fast overtaking him.

When Elrohir released him, he could only stare back at him, panting with an aching desire he had not thought possible. Elrohir marked his lust-darkened eyes, his stained cheeks, his slightly parted lips and the nervous lick of a rosy tongue tip.

“‘Tis your last chance to withdraw,” Elrohir said, his arm firm around the prince’s slender form. “Are you certain you want this?”

When Legolas in his daze did not respond at once, he gripped a fistful of golden hair in his other hand and, exerting just enough force, compelled the archer to tilt back his head. He used the other’s momentary muteness to suckle at his throat; it elicited a hoarse groan from Legolas.

“Are you?” Elrohir repeated with a growl against the sweet flesh.

Legolas clutched tremblingly at him, shaking with every nip and kiss to his neck. “Ah, Valar!” he gasped. “Aye, Elrohir, I am more than certain. Please, do not stop now,” he all but whispered in desperation.

Elrohir lifted his head to capture the archer’s lips once more. With just the slightest of nudges, he propelled Legolas back a step. The edge of the bed caught the prince behind his knees; Legolas could do naught but allow Elrohir to lower him onto the bed. A moment later, he was pressed into it by the Elf-knight’s taller, stronger body.

Elrohir did not hurry but leisurely lured him into play, reminding him that they were to enjoy themselves and each other this night. Legolas savored the languorous pace, which steadily stoked the fires of his passion yet permitted him time to adjust to each stage of waxing intimacy.

So enthralled was he by the Elf-knight’s ministrations that he protested when they ceased. Only to catch his breath when supple fingers undid his shirt and loosened his trousers. Legolas gazed up at his darkling lover while Elrohir divested him of his clothing. He stared raptly as the twin shrugged off his shirt and tugged at the ties of his own trousers.

Eager for his first glimpse of the warrior’s unclothed form, Legolas reached out to help Elrohir shed his raiment as well. They gazed upon each other for a spell, letting their eyes map what hands and mouths would later thoroughly explore.

“You have truly grown up, Legolas,” Elrohir murmured, tracing the line of a finely sculpted chest muscle with his finger, making Legolas shiver with delight. “And grown beautiful beyond words. You would drive any Elf to distraction just by baring your charms.”

The archer’s breath hitched as the wandering finger lingered on a fast hardening nipple. “And you could seduce even the Valar themselves, I warrant, just by revealing yours,” he whispered, eyes gleaming with elation. “Splendor of Eru, you cover your graces well, Elf-knight!”

Elrohir softly laughed though the faintest trace of color touched his cheekbones. So charming was this sight and so very alluring that Legolas cast all uncertainty and timidity aside and molded himself to the twin’s long frame, sealing his mouth to the other’s with lustful shamelessness.

His wantonness unleashed Elrohir’s previously restrained ardor. He pinned Legolas down to the bed, trapping him with his body, and proceeded to tutor him in the first of his lessons in the love-arts.

Legolas soon had more than ample reason to crow over his decision to avail of Elrohir’s considerable knowledge and skill. No awkward queries or hesitant fumbling marred their play. Even the least gentle of maneuvers was still executed with a grace and certitude born of the Elf-knight’s long experience. But more than that, he quickly realized that Elrohir’s mastery lay most markedly in his attentiveness to his partner’s needs and meeting them if possible. Not to mention springing a few surprises if in doing so he added to their shared rapture.

As he did with Legolas when he moved beyond the use of his hands and employed his mouth in seeing to the archer’s most fervent need. Legolas nearly keened when he was drawn into wet silken warmth no enclosing fist could match. He gripped the bed sheet convulsively as he was sucked to the brink of completion only to be denied it for a maddening moment, and then drawn upon anew until he was hoarsely begging for an end to the exquisite torment. Elrohir did bring the torment to an end by easing one finger slick with his incipient seed into the prince’s untried body to stroke him from within. Another soon followed. Legolas would never know how he retained his sanity after that.

Barely recovered from the most shattering climax he’d yet known, Legolas burrowed into Elrohir’s embrace, wondering if he could withstand further pleasuring yet curious and eager to learn more and be undone anew at Elrohir’s so very capable hands. There was no comparing the clumsy, unlearned kisses and caresses of his earlier explorations with the Elf-knight’s inimitable servicing.

He shivered with bliss at the memory of Elrohir’s stroking fingers within him, lifting him to such heights of pleasure as he had not previously thought existed. He could feel the Elf-knight’s hard length against his belly and suddenly yearned to know what it would be like to sheath the thick and rigid flesh. Strangely, he did not fear the experience even if there should be some pain. Not if it was Elrohir who speared him.

The thought made him giddy with expectation and he hungrily pressed his mouth against Elrohir’s throat and suckled hard at the twin’s fair skin. He knew and Elrohir knew that it would show in the morning—no collar would hide the mark he left for it was too high and vividly colored. Legolas chortled mischievously as he imagined the expressions of all who would note it.

Elrohir looked at him with tender amusement. “Marking me, _lass dithen_?”—little leaf—he mildly inquired though the intent of his roaming hand was anything but.

Legolas wriggled deliciously as his flank was stroked and his thighs were caressed.

“‘Tis to make certain everyone knows what we did this night,” he said, gasping in between words as Elrohir’s hand cupped and squeezed his bottom meaningfully. “And I told you, I am not little any longer!”

Elrohir laughed under his breath. “Indeed you are not. And I would have you know that the brimming mouthful you bestowed on me was just as sweet to taste as your impressive girth and length.”

“Elbereth,” Legolas said chokingly. “You are no less bawdy of tongue than your brother!”

“It comes easily when I have so luscious a treat to myself as you,” Elrohir murmured while he rolled Legolas onto his back and wedged himself between the other’s thighs. The prince watched, engrossed, while the Elf-knight coated the length of his shaft with their mingled seed.

Legolas drew in a shuddery breath as they came to the verge of his full undoing. But with typical verve, he did not shy away or flinch from timidity but eagerly lifted his legs to wrap them around Elrohir’s waist.

The twin’s eyes glittered perilously in the dim light. “Heed me well, Legolas,” he whispered. “Let no _ellon_ do unto you as I do now or any _elleth_ dictate her wishes save if he or she be your heart’s choice. Take what you desire, but yield only to your soul’s chosen mate. I would see you safe, _melethronen_. I would have you happy and content.”

Legolas smiled in deepest felicity both at the endearment and the sage advice. “I will abide by your guidance, _pen vell_ ”—dear one—he said, his voice soft with affection.

Elrohir smiled back. Holding Legolas’s hips firmly, he slowly eased into the archer’s body. He did not force his entry, but pressed in with caution to keep from hurting Legolas unnecessarily.

The archer gasped and writhed as he was steadily filled. Nothing, not even his most fevered imaginings could have prepared him for the reality of his body’s breaching. Swallowing hard, he strove to ignore the natural discomfort of a first yielding and focused on the beauty of their joining instead. In this, Elrohir aided him with words of comfort and caring, his hands stroking the prince’s quivering thighs soothingly. He dipped his head to lick and tug at Legolas’s nipples.

The discomfort swiftly receded before such loving and sensuous attention and soon Legolas was only aware of the warm, thrumming column that impaled him. He opened his eyes and gazed wonderingly at Elrohir. The Elf-knight adjusted his angle minutely even as he delivered a shallow thrust. Another adjustment and another thrust and suddenly Legolas let out a strangled cry of rapture.

It was what Elrohir sought and he began to drive into the prince, at first slowly and carefully, always aiming for the latter’s pleasure, then more rapidly and heartily. Body humming with indescribable sensation, Legolas pushed back with wild abandon.

Elrohir leaned low over him as they both approached their peaks. Legolas moaned when he felt his shaft enclosed in the warrior’s fist and stroked in time to their bodies’ movements. With shaking hands, he reached up, cupped Elrohir’s face and pulled him down to meet his parted lips in a hot-tongued, plundering kiss.

It came then, an almost unbearable wave of ecstasy that had him arching desperately against the twin, his legs locking fast around him as tremor after tremor raced through his body. Instinctively, he tightened his muscles around Elrohir’s spearing length, which further heightened both their pleasures. Still unused to such breath-stealing sensations, Legolas sobbed uncontrollably against Elrohir’s lips before a stifled cry finally escaped him. A moment later, he gasped as the Elf-knight embedded himself deep and hard in his core and liquid heat filled him. He heard his name uttered hoarsely. Curling his arms needfully around the warrior’s shoulders, Legolas buried his face in the crook of Elrohir’s neck.

Quite a long while passed before they gave thought to uncoupling their bodies only to draw together once more in an encompassing embrace, arms around each other, legs gently entangled, Legolas’s head resting contentedly upon Elrohir’s shoulder. They spoke quietly then, Legolas questioning about a myriad matters, Elrohir forthcoming with his answers. In between, their mouths met in liquid unions that soon had the flames of desire building once more.

It was way past midnight ere they both drifted into restful repose. Conscious of the faint throbbing in his backside from his two takings, Legolas wondered how pain could be so delightful. He smiled dreamily as he reflected on the manner of Elrohir’s tutelage.

His friend had been gentleness itself in these, his first piercings, whether with deft fingers, wicked tongue or formidable shaft. But he had not been as tender in other areas, intuitively divining Legolas’s liking for some rough usage. The prince did not doubt that his next taking would no longer be as wary.

Nestled in Elrohir’s arms, Legolas grinned smugly to himself. There would be a next time—he would see to it. One did not forego the pleasure of such peerless mastery as the Elf-knight possessed unless one was a hopeless fool.

* * * *

The singing of his praises was as fulsome as the hearty viands that were laid out upon the groaning boards. The torch-lit garden was a fitting setting for the numerous oft-florid odes to his beauty and grace. And with every fresh pouring of wine, embarrassingly ardent toasts were offered in his name.

And that was all.

No sly propositions were uttered. No lingering caresses were attempted. Legolas beamed happily through the night, basking in attention that was welcome, unencumbered by that which was not. And he owed his bliss to the grey-eyed Elf-knight who scarcely left his side during the course of his begetting day feast.

Hardly a day had passed after their first joining ere the whole of the Woodland Realm knew of his undoing by Elrohir. Soon, everyone was whispering of their trysting. It was not only the gossip courtesy of the Elves who noted the younger twin keeping nightly company with the king’s last-born that told of their intimacy. It was also the vivid love-bruises Legolas enthusiastically inflicted on Elrohir’s creamy neck each night that gave away their budding affair.

Neither Thranduil nor Elrond quite knew whether to be appalled or amused by the turn of events when informed of it by the pair’s respective siblings. But after gaining enlightenment from Elladan as to the reason for their preemptive coupling, they had to concede that if it had been Legolas’s intention to avoid unwanted advances, he had certainly chosen the most effective way of achieving it.

Thranduil simply rolled his eyes in resignation, quite used by now to his youngest son’s headstrong ways. But Elrond, recalling Gandalf’s words of long ago, wondered what lay in store for the two though he made no mention of his concern save to his lady-wife who was also his most trusted confidante.

Whatever their various feelings about the affair however, both families agreed that what mattered in the end was whether or not Legolas and Elrohir were pleased with the intimate turn their relationship had taken. It was clearly evident that they were.

Ellith pouted and ellyn scowled in the days preceding the feast. Not a few black glares of envy were directed at Elrohir for having plucked what they’d so coveted. But it was a useless exercise in pique. The deed was done. Legolas had been irrevocably shorn of his bodily innocence by none other than his dearest friend. And so, would-be suitors of both genders kept their dashed hopes to themselves (though not their lubricious stares) and doused the burning desire to approach the prince despite his present unavailability.

But it was not any proprietary gesture on Elrohir’s part that warned them away. The Elf-knight’s reputation was such that none dared court ridicule by harboring the absurd suspicion that he had taken advantage of his close relationship with Legolas. He was too noble a soldier-prince to have ever thought of wooing an Elf whose adoration and trust he’d had in his keeping since infancy, much less seducing him. It was simply inconceivable. The Mirkwood Elves quickly discerned just who had made the first overture and even more swiftly caught the message behind the whole affair.

Legolas would be nobody’s guerdon. One could flirt with him or try to beguile him. But anything beyond that would not be countenanced. He would do the courting, the seducing, and the taking. Let any Elf who attempted otherwise beware. This prince would brook no presumptions on his person.

Until the day he chose his eternal spouse, only to Elrohir would he surrender all. For the Peredhel who had virtually breathed life into him and always guarded that life no matter the cost would never deem it other than what it was—a most cherished gift. A shared blessing between two friends bound by an exemplary closeness and a singular regard for each other.

**************************  
Glossary:  
ellon (pl. ellyn) – male Elf  
elleth (pl. ellith) – Elf-maid  
melethronen – my lover (m.)

_To be continued…_


	8. Liaison

Imladris, _tuilë_ T.A. 2509  
The rays of the emerging dawn sun shimmered through the gossamer draperies of the windows and balcony doors to light the nearby wide four-poster bed. They caressed the slender form of the fair Elf who graced it so beauteously with his mere presence. Such comeliness was not lost on his companion whose pewter eyes appreciatively roamed the length and breadth of his body.

The sweetness of Legolas’s features in repose belied the hidden strength of his warrior’s frame. Elrohir’s gaze followed the hard slopes of the archer’s shoulders, swathed in the silver and gold of Legolas’s silken mane, as they gave way to the gently curving plain of his withy back then arced slightly into the smooth hillocks of his taut bottom before branching into the lines of his long, limber legs. His gaze returned to the prince’s bottom and the cleft therein. His lips curled into a smile at the knowledge of the snug and wondrous heat that was to be had once sheathed between those tempting curves.

He knew this body so very well. Was the only one who knew it _that_ well.

More than three hundred years had passed since he’d given Legolas his first bed-lessons. In that time, relations between the Silvan Elves of the green wood and the Elda of the hidden vale had improved to the point of flourishing. Thranduil’s people remained cautious as ever with all other folk including the denizens of Esgaroth and Dale with whom they often bartered. But not with Imladris. Not any more.

With such amicable accord established between their respective realms, Elrohir and Legolas’s singular relationship had strengthened even further. So constant and passionate was their liaison that it had initially been mistaken for a burgeoning romance between friends and there had been expectations of the announcement of a betrothal before long.

But that assumption was proven quite false when Legolas was seen to keep company with others though never for long and certainly without the intense regard he had for Elrohir. Couple this with the fact that it was upon the advice of Elrohir himself that Legolas had tested his mettle and skill with other partners, then their relationship could not be misconstrued as a love affair. But if not that, what was it? It was a question many asked but none ever dared broach to either Elf, not even members of their own families.

In all these, only one thing was of any surety. Legolas had taken Elrohir’s counsel to heart and allowed none the privilege of partaking as wholly of his graces as the Elf-knight had and continued to do.

That counsel had served him well. No longer was he approached with less than noble intent by any Elf for fear of one of his scathing rebukes. The youngest prince of Mirkwood was the hunter, never the prey. The instigator, never a mere accomplice.

Only in Elrohir’s bed did he cast off that iron control and let himself be succored or ravished as his needs dictated. In Elrohir’s arms he knew complete safety, his dignity secured and his pride tenderly guarded.

The last was not a matter to be taken lightly. Legolas’s pride was second to none. It spurred him to excel in every endeavor he undertook. Which was why, despite his relative youth, he was now a warrior of such great repute as to have surpassed his brother Denilos in the battle-arts. It was just as well that he was not ambitious for power other than that which was already his, but dutifully accepted whatever his king-father assigned to him. Else he might have competed with Denilos for the right to command Mirkwood’s defenses. Or become a formidable contender for the position of Thranduil’s foremost counsellor, a rank Gilfaron held as Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm.

No, Legolas held no such lofty ambitions for himself. But it was his pride nonetheless that held him to his choices whatever they may be. Whether sagely thought out or impulsively foolhardy, he did not swerve from his path once he had set his mind to it. And it was also his pride that made him loathe being bested by anybody on the fields of war or in the privacy of his bedchamber.

Small wonder that he refused to let down his guard even after three centuries and the bold cowing of those who’d earlier thought to master him.

Elrohir’s eyes softened as they regarded the peace and innocence of the archer’s slumbering countenance. He gently stroked a downy cheek then tucked wayward strands of _mithril_ and gold behind a peaked ear. He allowed his hand to travel down the archer’s back, barely ghosting over his supple flesh before alighting on his bottom. Again, the awareness that to him alone had Legolas entrusted his full surrender moved him and he caressed the firm mounds affectionately.

The prince had come to Rivendell for a late spring’s visit, something he treated himself to whenever the chance presented itself, which was not as often as he liked. Legolas had never ceased to revel in the valley’s multitude of attractions not least of which was the Elf-knight whose bed he eagerly warmed. Whenever he could set aside his many duties as prince and soldier, he would travel to Imladris and sojourn there for a lengthy spell. And for good reason.

The harshness of life in Mirkwood had never truly relented. More so now that the malignant power behind Dol Guldur was returned and strange creatures intermittently roamed the plains around the great forest. Their bloodcurdling shrieks were enough to near frighten the faint of heart to death.

Each time Legolas and his brothers took their turns defending the borders of the Woodland Realm, they risked life and limb. Their sister Tuilinniel had been widowed when her mate was slain in a brutal encounter with orcs attempting to pass the kingdom’s southern bounds.

Thranduil had taken steps since to safeguard the womenfolk and young of his realm, sending many to the relative security of the Grey Havens. In the last hundred years or so alone, at least half of the refugees had chosen to leave Middle-earth and seek permanent refuge in Valinor, Legolas’s two sisters amongst them along with Celebrethil’s husband and children.

This exodus might well have fatally diminished the Woodland Realm were it not for the stubborn resolve of its remaining folk. Fortunately, fertility and normal birthing had been restored during the centuries of the Watchful Peace and the Wood-elves had managed to keep their population tenable.

But it was dangerous to step beyond their borders now unless one travelled with a fully armed escort. Legolas always came to Rivendell accompanied by no less than a half-dozen strapping woodland soldiers armed to the teeth. On several occasions, his father had tried to forbid his journeys to the vale, but eventually always gave in to his stubborn youngest’s arguments.

Legolas would not forego a single opportunity to visit Imladris if he could help it. He needed his increasingly infrequent sojourns in the valley. Such interludes of serenity in his perilous existence invigorated him and nourished his oft-drained spirit and he would return to Mirkwood much heartened and more than ready to shoulder his responsibilities anon.

“I am not so sore that you should restrain yourself, Elrohir.”

Elrohir came out of his musings and looked into fully lucid sapphire eyes. They sparkled with mirth at his obvious startlement. He shook his head.

“How long have you been awake?” he inquired.

Legolas grinned, rubbing his cheek lazily against the silky fabric of his pillow. “Long enough to grow impatient for you to make a move,” he quipped.

Elrohir smirked. “I do not care for insensible partners,” he pointed out. “But now that you are roused…”

He gripped Legolas by the waist and, rolling on his back, pulled the archer atop him. Legolas moaned in delight as he was hungrily kissed while the Elf-knight’s fingers lustfully roved his body. Gasping from the pleasure coursing through him, the prince raised himself slightly without breaking their lips’ embrace to settle astride Elrohir’s thighs. He reached between their bodies to grasp their thrumming lengths in both hands and stroked them together, enjoying the feel of the heated columns betwixt his palms. Soon they were both on the verge of completion.

Legolas ceased his maddening caresses and crept up a little higher. Elrohir reached up to cup his face and catch his gaze.

“I rode you quite hardily last night,” he murmured. “I am more than willing to be used thusly this morn, _ernilen_.”—my prince.

Legolas smiled but shook his head. Leaning down to steal kisses from the Elf-knight, he softly said, “I am not ready for that, _melethron_. Not yet.”

Elrohir sought to persuade him no more. He held Legolas’s hips and eased him down onto his seed-slick shaft. Legolas gasped in sheer bliss as he was pierced, then groaned in ecstasy when he was filled nigh to bursting. Elrohir marveled as always at his enjoyment of this invasion of his body. But then Legolas enjoyed every aspect of bed-play and enthusiastically explored the ways and means by which to extract the greatest pleasure from a coupling.

But not if it required him to take Elrohir.

Others would have deemed it strange had they been cognizant of this considering that the archer was known for his proclivity for dominance. Yet if Elrohir was the only _ellon_ to ever breach the youngest woodland prince, so too was the Elf-knight the only lover Legolas had declined to conquer.

The archer’s reverence for his bed-tutor precluded indulging in such an act. Legolas may have had the temerity to importune Elrohir into bedding him. But to bed the younger twin in turn was another thing entirely. Elrohir had not only been his best friend; he was also millennia older than him, had been his teacher in everything from the more scholarly and artistic pursuits to his grueling training as a warrior, and had mentored him through many of the more difficult stages in his life.

Legolas could not conceive of having one who had guided him since infancy now lie beneath him, spread himself for him and let him spill his seed within him. It simply seemed so improper.

Elrohir did not think it improper at all. But neither did he press the issue. Admittedly, he had been surprised to discover this uncharacteristic puritanical streak in his normally adventurous friend. But he did not wish to force Legolas into doing something he had not yet come to terms with. Some day the archer would relinquish this particular inhibition, but Elrohir wanted it to come to him naturally.

Besides, he had no cause for complaint. Legolas was most adept in pleasuring both of them. As he proved once again this morning.

As they lay together in the pleasant haze of rapture, Legolas contentedly nestled his golden head on Elrohir’s shoulder. “I wish I did not have to leave just yet,” he murmured, planting a kiss on said shoulder.

Elrohir idly asked: “Is it imperative for you to return this week?”

Legolas sighed. “Aye, it is,” he said. "Denilos has been on border duty since winter. I need to relieve him and his men lest they fail from weariness.”

Elrohir caressed his hair, slipping his fingers through the fine shining strands. “I only pray the Powers will keep you when you take his place, Legolas,” he said.

The archer’s answering smile was impish. Legolas’s spirit might occasionally falter, but it was never truly vanquished. “Spare some pity for the poor vermin who will encounter my steel,” he cheekily declared.

Elrohir smiled back, his pride in the prince’s courage and skill apparent in his eyes. “I can feel no pity but only scorn for any foolish enough to test your patience,” he retorted.

Legolas subsided into his arms again with a snort of laughter. Nuzzling Elrohir’s neck, he lazily queried, “Are you still going to Lothlórien this summer?”

“Aye.”

“Your parents must be eager to see Arwen again.”

“They are. And they are looking forward to wintering in the Golden Wood as well. _Adar_ especially enjoys sojourning there with _Naneth_. There is something about Lórien that brings deep healing to the heart and spirit. Even more than here in Imladris.”

Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “Mmm, so you have told me before,” he said. “I envy you, Elrohir. I wonder if I will ever visit Lórien. Even when you describe it, it still seems more like a myth than a real place to me.”

Elrohir pressed his lips to the prince’s temple. “Mayhap you will get the chance some day,” he said. “I only hope ‘twill not be out of dire need that you will seek out my grandparents’ realm.”

Whatever else he thought to say was stifled by one of Legolas’s dizzying kisses. And minutes after, there was no room for thought as rapture had its ways once more with both of them.

* * * *

Lady Celebrían left for the Golden Wood a month after Legolas’s departure. But neither her husband nor sons were with her. A frightful skirmish with outlaws on the northeastern boundary of Rivendell called the twins away to aid Glorfindel. Impatient to be reunited with the daughter she had not seen in eight years, their mother had decided to push through with the journey as scheduled. Elrond, as much healer as Elf-lord, had waited for the brethren’s return, mindful of the inevitable injuries that were always the outcome of such violent encounters. Thus, it was only after four days that they were able to set out in her wake.

They travelled steadily and swiftly and soon came to the foothills of Caradhras. They set up camp the night before their ascent. They would not stop to encamp again until they had crested the mountain and traversed the Redhorn Pass. With luck, they might even catch up with Celebrían ere she and her escort came to Lothlórien.

Early the next day, they followed the mountain trail, their elven steeds deftly picking their way up the steep path. They had reached the last plateau before the long and sheer climb to the pass when they came upon the unexpected.

Three Elves struggled down the path on foot. Not a one was not grievously wounded. Elrond and the twins stared in dismay. They were of the escort that had accompanied Celebrían.

Elrond was off his horse in an instant, running to meet them, the brethren not far behind him. “What has happened?” he demanded hoarsely as he neared the warriors. “Where is my wife?”

The least battered of the three settled his barely conscious comrade on the soft grass before rising to his feet to face Elrond. The third sank down on a low boulder, head bowed, spent beyond bearing.

“Orcs ambushed us in the pass,” the first warrior explained wearily. “They have taken her. Ah, forgive us, my lord! We failed you!”

He swayed even while he spoke and fell in a swoon into Elrond’s arms as he finished relating what had passed. The Elvenlord shared a look of shock and horror with his sons. Laying the warrior down gently, Elrond made to rise, his hand already grasping the hilt of his sword, blazing eyes lifted to the peaks above them.

“Nay, Father,” Elladan said grimly. He gestured to the foundered soldiers. “You must stay here and see to their injuries else they might perish from want of care.”

“Aye, Elladan and I will go after _Nana_ ”—Mama—Elrohir concurred. Seeing his father’s frustration, he clasped Elrond’s shoulder tightly. “We will bring her home, _Ada_ ”—Papa—he firmly said. “We swear.”

Elrond, mouth tight with barely suppressed rage and mounting dread for his lady, could only nod his assent. He silently watched his sons vault onto their steeds and race up the climbing trail. Again, his eyes lifted to the towering peaks above. The suddenly treacherous peaks of cruel Caradhras.

**************************  
Glossary:  
tuilë – Quenya for spring  
melethron – lover  
Adar – Father  
Nana – Mama  
ellon – male elf

_To be continued…_


	9. Catalyst

_Firith_ T.A. 2531  
After the din of battle cries and furious screams, clashing metal and vociferous neighing, the still aftermath seemed almost unnatural and eerie. Silence did not become the scene of recent carnage. Not when the tortured earth was riven by sharp hooves and heavy feet, the trampled grass stained with black blood and a bonfire steadily burned, fed by the remains of the band of goblins that would plague Middle-earth no more.

Elrohir looked up from his contemplation of the grisly blaze to see Elladan walking toward him with Aravorn, Imladris’s latest fosterling now grown to manhood. Aragost’s son, though only a scant handful of years past his majority, had already seen more action than most men thrice his age. Like all his family, he was dark-haired, grey-eyed and bore the faint traces of his distant kinship to Elrond Half-elven. 

As he awaited their approach, Elrohir looked about at the other Rangers. They were mounting their sturdy, rough-haired steeds, their dark cloaks billowing about them in the swiftly waxing evening breeze.

He heard Elladan ask the young man, “Whither will you go now?”

Aravorn replied, “Back west over the mountains. We will meet my father in Fornost, then go on to Nenuial. We will winter there with our womenfolk and children.” The brethren nodded, remembering the deserted city of the Dúnedain in the North Downs, once-fair Annúminas by Lake Evendim. “And you? Will you return to Rivendell?”

Elladan glanced at Elrohir. The younger twin’s eyes turned east to the great forest in the distance. He shook his head.

“We will visit Mirkwood first,” the Elf-knight said. “It has been some twenty years since we last set foot in the Woodland Realm.”

The Ranger smiled faintly. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was aware of the singular affair his foster-brother conducted with Mirkwood’s youngest prince. It was by no means common knowledge amongst the Dúnedain for not all still recalled the ancient knowledge of elven traditions. But Aravorn’s family, sprung of blessed Eärendil’s seed through Elros, Elrond’s mortal brother, preserved the old lore and therefore knew and understood. And besides, not a few of the line had known such stirrings, though none had ever gone beyond fleeting indulgences.

“‘Twas good hunting this season, _gwenyn_ ”—twins—Aravorn said. “We were fortunate to have you with us these many months.”

“Send our regards to your father,” Elladan bid him. He clasped the young man’s shoulder in farewell. “Until we meet again, _pen neth_.”—young one.

Elrohir did the same. “May Elbereth keep you and yours, _gwanur_.”—brother.

They waited for Aravorn and his men to ride away westward before they turned their own steeds east toward Mirkwood. As they steadily traversed the plains, they spoke of the various news, concerns and issues raised by the Rangers during their time with them.

Elladan said, “Did I tell you? Aravorn mentioned that his father means to go to the Riddermark and see for himself what these Rohirrim are like. Mayhap we should do likewise, brother,” he added thoughtfully. “What say we set aside a year or two for this?”

Elrohir shrugged. “‘Tis an interesting proposition. And we may have time to visit Gondor as well.”

“Mmm, aye,” Elladan concurred. He glanced at his brother. “Speaking of Gondor, I wonder how Dol Amroth is doing.”

Elrohir snorted. “By that you mean how is her current prince doing, unwed as he is at present.” He shook his head reprovingly. “Ah, _gwaniuar_ , one day—one day, I swear—this predilection of yours will bring you to grief,” he mused. “Truly, I wish you would stint in your poaching of that family.”

“Poaching!” Elladan repeated somewhat indignantly. “I do not take what is not willingly given, Elrohir.”

“Aye, but you make it difficult for any to deny you,” Elrohir gently said. “None can turn you down even when it would be wiser to do so.”

In spite of the seeming heat of their exchange, naught but affection flowed between them. Elladan broke into a sweet smile, moved as always by his brother’s concern for his well-being.

“Do not worry so over me,” he quietly assured the Elf-knight. “I am not as heedless as all that. Else I would not even be alive today to make this claim.”

Elrohir smiled back. “I know,” he softly replied.

* * * *

Their entry into the great forest did not go unmarked. Even as they travelled down the elven track into the heart of the wood, sentries sent word ahead of their advent. By the time they approached the delved halls of the Wood-elves’ king just before daybreak, Thranduil and his two older sons already awaited them as well as a goodly number of the court. 

Their arrival elicited a great amount of curiosity and excitement. As Elrohir had earlier indicated, their last visit to Mirkwood had been the year after their mother had perforce departed Middle-earth for Aman. That sojourn had been brief and grim—a mere three-day stay ere they rode into the wilds to hunt down more of the creatures who had devastated their family’s peace and unity.

They were much changed from the days of yore. Their eyes spoke volumes of the evil and violence they had witnessed in two decades of incessant errantry against orcs, renegade men and trolls. The once open gazes were now guarded and stern. Hardened by their toils, they were no longer as quick to laugh or ready to smile. And when they did smile, it did not always reach their eyes. Where once they had been warm and friendly as a rule, they were now cool and aloof though never less than courteous. Only those closest to their hearts still knew their affectionate regard.

Oddly enough, such remoteness only further underlined their undiminished allure. Perhaps it was that very distance that made them all the more appealing. The enticement of what seemed beyond reach served to spur more interest in them.

And they had never looked so beyond anyone’s reach as they did this early morn. Attired in unrelenting black and gray, their raven locks bound into thick single plaits in the style of the mortals with whom they shared a common heritage, and their tall forms bearing sword and bow and spear, they looked fell and dangerous and beautiful beyond words.

Thranduil graciously welcomed them. And he was quick to discern Elrohir’s disappointment at finding Legolas absent—the archer was on duty on the northern bounds of the kingdom. The Elvenking swiftly assured the brethren that he had already sent word recalling his youngest son home. In the meantime, he bade them to refresh themselves and take their rest.

They gratefully accepted the king’s hospitality and were soon settled in their rooms. But while Elladan emerged later in the day to keep company with Gilfaron and Denilos, Elrohir chose to seclude himself, leaving his chamber only as necessity dictated.

Twenty-two years had passed since he and Elladan chased after the brutes that had taken Celebrían to their noisome lair. Twenty-two years since they had rescued her from the savagery the beasts had dealt her. He it was who had crept into the orc nest after Elladan had lured the greatest number away, slain those who remained and borne away his mother’s scored and battered body, almost unrecognizable after the horrific flogging she had endured, bleeding profusely from the hideous poisoned wound that ran from her right shoulder to halfway down the front of her torso. Any deeper and it would have severed her breast from her body.

He had taken her to Elrond who still waited on the slopes of Caradhras with the three warrior Elves he’d nursed back to some haleness. He would never forget his father’s expression at first sight of his wife’s horrendous state. Would never forget the vision of Elrond tending to her injuries with what limited medical supplies he had, tears streaming down his cheeks in helpless fury, his hands shaking as he threaded a surgical needle that he might at least close the fearsome wound.

The older twin had joined them after tricking his bestial pursuers into blundering over the edge of a sheer drop to their well-deserved deaths. By then Elrond and Elrohir had managed to cleanse Celebrían of much of the gore and filth the Elf-knight had found her besmeared with, the ghastly wound had been sutured and she was unconscious from the sleeping draught her husband had administered to her. 

Unlike his twin, Elladan did not see his mother’s injuries at their worst and freshest. He did not have memories of her pitiful cries and whimpers as her brutalized body thrummed with more agony during the jolting ride down the mountain. He did not hear Celebrían begging her younger son to end her life and the unbearable pain.

What had followed had deepened the Elf-knight’s anguish. Within a year, Elrond had been forced to send his wife over sea. He had been able to heal her body, but not her flagging spirit. In the months between her rescue and departure, life at the Last Homely House had become one continuous nightmare as Celebrían struggled to regain her wholeness only to fail again and again. Watching his mother’s suffering, Elrohir had began to wonder whether he would have served her better had he slain her when she pleaded with him to do so. He still wondered about it to this day.

Soon after Celebrían left they began their questing. Vengeance had driven them at first. No orc was spared once discovered, but was slaughtered ere it had a chance to even squeak in surprise. They left in their wakes hundreds of goblin dens and encampments encrusted in the stench of death. The orcs came to loathe and fear them even as they strove to ruin them.

After ten years of relentless killing, however, the searing conflagration of vengeance gave way to the steady flame of duty once again. They would not allow another to suffer as their mother had if it was within their power. They would hunt down orcs and trolls and wicked men to keep them from destroying lives and souls. They would guard the innocent and helpless and decimate the minions of evil.

Elladan found some peace in the certitude of the rightness of their goal. But Elrohir, while grateful for the sense of clear purpose this gave him, could not so easily forget what he had seen and heard. A part of him remained steeped in the hatred and revulsion of those first moments after discovering the atrocities done to his mother. A part of him knew exultation when he slew and maimed and crippled. And that was what troubled him no end.

He did not want to hate with mindless fervor or rejoice in the destruction of life however odious that life might be. For what did that make him other than one alike to the very creatures he abhorred?

Evening came and he retreated at once to his chamber after bathing. He was in no mood for company, not even the convivial company of the common baths. He craved solitude as he grappled anon with his fraught thoughts and feelings. He had confided much in Elladan, of course, but he did not wish to burden his twin overmuch and so held back regarding certain matters.

Yet as had happened many times before, peace of mind and heart eluded him. Standing on his balcony, he looked out unseeingly at the shadowed woods, absently noting that the growth was once more dark with the creeping miasma of Dol Guldur.

A sudden image of Legolas amidst such growing blackness flashed through his mind. Unbidden, sorrow washed over him that his golden friend should live in such cloying circumstances. Legolas belonged in sunlit, verdant woods, his wild spirit unfettered by the ever-festering shadow that lay over Mirkwood.

The door opened and he turned with a frown, wondering who dared intrude on him without so much as a by your leave. The frown vanished an instant later.

It was Legolas. He had bathed and dressed in obvious haste for he had donned the hardy breeches he’d worn coming in from the borders and, over this, carelessly thrown on a bathing robe, which hung open for lack of its belt. His shining tresses were damp and unbound and he was barefooted.

“Elrohir!” he softly exclaimed as he entered the chamber, slamming the door shut behind him. Hastening to the Elf-knight, he said: “I came back as soon as I received word of your arrival.”

He caught Elrohir in a hearty embrace, turning his face into the crook of the warrior’s neck. “How do you fare these days, _mellonen_?”—my friend—he murmured.

Elrohir tightened his hold on the archer, grateful for Legolas’s immediate concern for him. “As well as can be managed in these dark times,” he whispered. “I am glad to be here. To be with you.”

Legolas drew away and anxiously studied his face. He had not missed the note of imminent despair in Elrohir’s voice. “What is wrong, _pen vell_?”—dear one—he asked.

Elrohir shrugged as if to dismiss the archer’s worries, but Legolas reached up and caught his face in his hands to stare into his eyes. “You cannot hide your distress from me,” he insisted.

Elrohir swallowed hard, unable to deny the plea in the sapphire pools that regarded him so intensely. “I have not been all that hale in spirit,” he admitted morosely.

Legolas scowled. “What ails you?” he demanded. “Tell me, Elrohir.”

Elrohir sighed. “ _Naneth_ ’s ordeal,” he simply said.

The archer caught his breath in dismay. When he’d last met the twins in Imladris about eleven years ago, he’d believed both reasonably recovered from the trauma of their family’s sundering and the reason for it. He took Elrohir by the hand and led him to the bed. Bidding the warrior to sit down, he tucked in close to his side and slid a comforting arm around his shoulder.

“I spoke with Elladan when I arrived,” he quietly said. “He seems peaceful enough. Why not you?”

Elrohir shook his head. “Elladan did not see what I saw in that den,” he whispered. “He did not feel her agony as I carried her away.” He hesitated. “He did not hear her imploring me to put her to the sword and end her suffering.”

Legolas gasped in shock. “You did not mention this before,” he said. He stared in suspicion at the Elf-knight. “Who else knows of her plea?” When Elrohir remained silent, he gasped again, this time in incredulity. “You told no one? Not even Elladan?”

“I could not,” Elrohir wearily explained. “Once I reveal to him what truly befell _Naneth_ , his rage and sorrow will be equal to mine. I do not care to have the two of us dwelling on this. ‘Tis enough that I alone have learned to take pleasure in killing like a heathen orc. I do not wish to weigh him down with such a burden.”

“Yet you would bear it by yourself!” Legolas said almost angrily. He took hold of himself and gentled his voice. “I esteem your mother greatly for the care she bestowed on me yet I do not love her as you do. I can endure what you refuse to reveal to Elladan. You must let me help you, my Elf-knight. You must unburden your heart else you will break.” He caught Elrohir’s hand in his and cupped the latter’s face with the other, compelling him to return his gaze. “Tell me,” he urged him earnestly.

The need to leaven some of the weight in his weary heart overcame the remains of Elrohir’s reluctance to trouble anyone else with his nightmarish visions. Legolas was not as gifted as he in the silent speech between minds and so, with a shaky sigh, he not only let his thoughts flow but also spoke of his mother’s terrible ordeal. And went on to admit his fear that he was turning into the very thing he sought to cleanse Middle-earth of.

By the time he finished, his cheeks were wet with tears. Sometime during his narration, they had cleaved to each other and he found himself cradled in Legolas’s snug embrace. He laid his head on the archer’s shoulder, feeling a vast sense of relief at having at last shared his raucous feelings with someone.

Legolas glanced down at the warrior’s pale streaked face. He stroked the midnight locks gently. “You are not becoming one of them,” he firmly said. “You act out of rage for the wrong done to you and yours. They kill for its own sake.”

“And I do not?” Elrohir murmured. “I enjoy their terror, Legolas. I feel naught but anger when I run them through or burn them or bludgeon them. The very sight of their dying throes brings me joy.”

“And still that does not make you one of them!” Legolas vehemently insisted. “For you repent of your black thoughts and deeds while they do not.” He felt Elrohir start in surprise and knew his words had hit home. “You care enough to loath what you do,” he softly affirmed. “That makes you different from them, Elrohir.”

The Elf-knight lifted his head to gaze at him searchingly. As the argent eyes regarded him with awakening hope, Legolas found himself marking their beauty anew. Once he noticed this, he noticed other things as well. Such as the allure of the twin’s sinuous lips. And the always enticing scent of his warm skin. And the seductiveness of the hard thews under his clothing. Without warning, desire flared up within him and his loins stirred to strident life.

Legolas felt shame skewer him that he should lust for Elrohir now of all times. The Elf-knight needed his compassion, not his passion. The balming hug of a friend, not the possessive arms of a lover. Yet his desire evidenced itself all too blatantly in the obvious bulge in the crotch of his breeches.

He realized this almost at the same time as Elrohir saw it. Legolas pulled away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment and rue.

“Forgive me, Elrohir,” he stammered. “‘Tis shameful of me to—”

Fingers against his lips silenced him. Elrohir gently drew him close again. “Do not feel shamed,” he whispered. “I want you, too.”

Surprised, Legolas gaped at him. But a moment later, he pulled the twin into a near backbreaking embrace and sealed their mouths together in wanton ferocity. He made short work of the warrior’s shirt and near tore the laces from his trousers; broke away just long enough to hurriedly shed his robe and strip off his breeches.

Elrohir seemed inclined to let him take the lead and so he did, intuitively guessing that the warrior needed to let go. To be mastered that he might forget his brutal mastering of others. With his hunger for the Elf-knight driving him on, Legolas did not balk one whit at complying with his friend’s silent request. He pressed Elrohir down to the bed, eyes glittering with barely restrained desire.

Elrohir groaned, shuddered and writhed as he was deftly and eagerly explored anew. Steadily moving downwards, Legolas suckled at his neck, kissed his chest and laved his nipples while his hands caressed every inch of skin within reach. The warrior ran his fingers through the prince’s pale locks, his breathing growing more uneven with every ardent assault on his flesh.

When moist warmth enclosed his aching length, he could not quite smother a cry of rapture. It had been far too long since he’d known such pleasure. The prince’s enthusiasm multiplied it a hundredfold.

Legolas always performed this service as if he derived enjoyment not only from pleasuring his partner but also from knowing that partner so intimately. But only Elrohir knew with certainty that in his case, it was true. Legolas relished his every sight and taste and touch of the Elf-knight’s body. He was never as zealous in his explorations of his other lovers’ charms, whether _ellon_ or _elleth_ , as he was in uncovering Elrohir’s.

Aflame with the knowledge of Legolas’s singular regard for him, Elrohir was soon overtaken by an undeniable need to sup on the archer’s graces as well.

“Turn around, Legolas!” he commanded hoarsely. “On your side.”

Legolas swiftly shifted his position to present himself to the Elf-knight, resting his head on Elrohir’s hard thigh, and parting his own legs to allow his lover to do the same. He nearly keened when Elrohir brusquely gripped his hip and dragged him forward to engulf his rigid length in the depths of his mouth. Legolas needed to steady himself a few moments as he was drawn upon with such edaciousness that he almost spent himself within seconds of the first suckle. But Elrohir’s own luscious member still lay before him and he was not about to forego having it for his pleasure.

Soon they were both wracked by the throes of rapture as they vigorously serviced each other. Legolas cried out around his delicious mouthful of hot flesh when he felt the pulsing in his groin that rapidly evolved into the explosive spilling of his seed into the Elf-knight’s mouth. So voracious did his suckling turn as he rode out the waves of his release that Elrohir soon came to breath-stealing completion as well, gasping raggedly as Legolas eagerly milked him dry.

Panting erratically after such a draining climax, Elrohir waited for Legolas to crawl back up into his arms. But the prince surprised him by not giving him time to fully recover but pressed their lips together once more. He gasped as his mouth was plundered and he was lured into a sensual duel of lips and tongue and teeth.

Legolas drew away slightly and, breathing hard, echoed what Elrohir had been thinking earlier: “It has been far, far too long. Valar, but I have missed you so, _rochiren_.”—my knight.

Unlooked for tears pricked Elrohir’s eyes. Why he should be so moved by the archer’s words after so many centuries of intimacy between them, he did not know but it did not change the fact that he was. Mutely, he snaked his hand behind Legolas’s nape and pulled him back down into an even more voracious kiss. At once, the prince set to ravaging him anew. Caught in Legolas’s thrall, Elrohir swiftly and willingly succumbed anew.

Supple fingers played with his nipples, pinching and tweaking them until he was squirming with delight beneath the prince’s withy form. As their members surged back to life, Legolas thrust against him, sliding the hardening columns against each other until they were both gasping into each other’s mouths from the near excruciating ecstasy.

Elrohir felt the archer reach between them to gather the copious fluids of their resurgent passion. He stopped Legolas just as he was about to smear the twin’s shaft with their mingled seed. The archer broke their kiss, eyebrows lifting in question.

“Nay, I would have you take me,” Elrohir whispered. He firmly guided Legolas’s hand to the archer’s member. “Anoint yourself, _melethron_.”—lover.

Legolas caught his breath as Elrohir compelled him to coat his own length. “Are you certain?” he murmured, his heart thundering at the thought of having the warrior. His teacher and mentor and dearest friend.

“Aye, very certain,” Elrohir said. “Have me, Legolas, master me—” He broke off and drew a shuddery inhalation. “Make me forget, _lass vuil_. Make me think only of you. Of us.”

Swayed by Elrohir’s fervent need, Legolas complied. Almost holding his breath, he moved between the twin’s thighs. If he still had reservations about what he was about to do, they were quickly swept away when Elrohir lifted his legs and wrapped them around his waist. Swallowing hard at the thought of delving into the Elf-knight’s very core, Legolas pressed his eager shaft home.

‘Twas he who gave a strangled cry as he was sheathed to the hilt. Eyes swimming, he stared at the warrior in joyous disbelief. He had never entertained the thought of taking Elrohir for all the reasons he had given the twin. But this night Elrohir had directly asked it of him, had told him he needed it of him—he could not refuse so heartfelt a plea. And now here he was buried deep in the heated sweetness of the Elf-knight’s formidable body. He had not thought such bliss possible.

“Oh Elbereth,” he whispered as raging desire coursed through him like a molten river. “Eru preserve me.”

His eyes gleamed with unholy brilliance. A wild urge to stake his claim on the warrior struck him then. He began to drive into Elrohir, each thrust as deep as he could make it, the twin’s moans and gasps sending prickles of delight simmering along his skin.

With none of his other partners had it ever felt like this, he thought with astonishment. None had looked as glorious as Elrohir did lying beneath him, his sable hair spread like blackest silk upon the pillow, half-closed eyes gazing up at him with utmost trust, lips parted in tacit invitation to be plundered. None had felt as warm and welcoming—for all the others’ enthusiasm in yielding to him, only this surrender meant the world to him.

All the others, no matter what caring, affection or even love they might profess for the prince, could not avoid being influenced even to the tiniest extent by his lofty ranking in the kingdom. But Legolas knew without a doubt that even had he been but a common border scout or Elf-wright or one of his father’s scullions, Elrohir would still submit to him without hesitation.

This fact, this knowledge sent his lust spiralling to unprecedented heights. Rough cries escaped him with every lunge of his hips, the feel of surprising tightness and wondrous satin softness making him near giddy with felicity. Wanting to see Elrohir lose himself completely to pleasure, he grasped the Elf-knight’s shaft as it pressed against his belly and stroked it hardily.

Elrohir gasped then shuddered helplessly, the simultaneous sensations of being caressed from without and within unravelling him ere long. Coming completely undone, he spent himself into the archer’s covetous hand, calling out Legolas’s name, his features so stunning in rapture, the sight finished the prince with shocking swiftness.

Breathing harshly with the force of his release, Legolas buried himself as deeply as he could, his entire existence in that instant reduced to the ecstasy of wholly claiming his beauteous Elf-knight. As the last of his seed filled his lover, he felt his arms give way and he collapsed onto Elrohir. The twin’s strong arms enclosed him and, with a happy sigh, he nestled his head against Elrohir's shoulder, curling his arm around his waist and draping his thigh across the warrior’s legs.

The thought came to him that he had discovered something new this night. About himself and about Elrohir. He had practically worshipped Elrohir when he had seen naught but his strength and wisdom. But tonight, he had seen the Elf-knight vulnerable and near despair; in dire need of counsel and reassurance. And he found that he adored Elrohir all the more for having revealed to him his weakness and for possessing the courage to reveal it at all. He tightened his hold on the warrior.

“ _Hannon le_ ,” Elrohir murmured, gently caressing the archer’s tousled hair. Thank you.

“Whatever for?” Legolas queried, tilting his head slightly to look at him.

“For seeing to my needs,” Elrohir softly replied. “For taking care of me so tenderly.”

Legolas raised himself slightly on his arm and looked at his friend. “I was hardly tender,” he said half teasingly. Then more seriously, he added, “You know I would do anything for you. Besides, I more than answered my own needs.” He lay down once more, pressing his face into Elrohir’s neck. “Especially my need for you, Elf-knight.”

Elrohir caught his breath at the admission. The prince had made similar declarations before in relation to their unique affair. But somehow, it felt different after what had passed between them. He could not quite pinpoint the feeling or the moment it had taken root in his heart. But it was there.

Tonight, it seemed to Elrohir that a line had been crossed. But what that crossing entailed and whether he alone had done so—or Legolas as well—he did not know. Yet.

***************************  
Glossary:  
firith – Sindarin for late autumn, roughly October to November  
gwanur – brother or sister, but a more accurate translation would be kinsman or kinswoman  
Naneth – Mother  
ellon – male Elf  
elleth – Elf-maid  
lass vuil - dear leaf

_To be continued…_


	10. Tidings

Rivendell, _Narquelië_ T.A. 3018  
“Who would have thought that the fate of Middle-earth would rest in the hands of one of the little folk?”

The softly uttered comment barely broke the morning quiet as the three tall figures regarded the Bagginses, Bilbo and Frodo, and stolid Samwise Gamgee from afar. Seated on stone benches along one of the winding terraces overlooking the Bruinen, the Hobbits kept company with Gandalf while awaiting the summons to the Council.

It was less than a week since the tumultuous day when Glorfindel had returned to Rivendell with one weary Ranger and four straggling Hobbits in tow. The twins had arrived the night before to the news of Frodo’s near brush with wraith-hood and the dire reason for it. Their father had called for a meeting amongst his counsellors to discuss what was to be done about such an unbidden occurrence.

As chance would have it, a delegation of Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain happened to have arrived as well to inquire after an entirely different matter; they had been asked to attend the Council as had a lone rider from the south. One Boromir, the Steward of Gondor’s older son and heir.

Aragorn glanced at Elladan with a grim smile. “Astonishing,” he agreed. “I could scarce give it credence myself when Gandalf first told me about the Ring and who had found it.” He shook his head. “But they are a resilient people. My men and I have guarded them for so long, yet they surprise me over and again with their courage and hardiness.”

“So _Adar_ told us last night,” Elrohir said. “‘Tis a thing unheard of that young Frodo withstood that morgul blade’s evil for so many days. Even the strongest amongst us might well have fallen ere we could reach aid.”

Aragorn nodded. “Indeed, I had never been so afraid as when I discovered he’d been pierced,” he admitted. “Yet he prevailed against all hope.”

“A most indomitable Hobbit,” Elladan murmured admiringly. “Would that we could assure him that this is the end of the road for him.”

Elrohir shook his head. “I fear ‘tis far from the end,” he mused. “More like the beginning of an even longer one.”

“And more perilous,” Elladan added with a grimace.

Aragorn glanced from one twin to the other. Both his foster-brothers and their sister were gifted with the foresight of their house. A small portion of that gift was also in his family’s keeping. If the brethren sensed more was in store for Frodo, then it was most likely to come true. His lips tightened at the thought of the Hobbit facing even more danger than he had already.

“If your forebodings are true, then I pray he will have the strength to withstand them as well,” he said. “Ah, accursed creature for having found that Ring!” he muttered.

Elladan found the wherewithal to grin. “I presume you are referring to Gollum and not to Bilbo,” he said.

Aragorn started then chuckled ruefully. “You are incorrigible, _gwanur_ ”—brother—he chided.

Elrohir joined briefly in their mirth then sobered. “How fared Mirkwood when you visited there?” he softly queried.

Aragorn darted a knowing look at him. “The kingdom is as well as can be expected,” he said. “And you can rest assured that Legolas is hale and whole,” he added.

Gentle color stained Elrohir’s cheeks to his surprise. When the Elf-knight suddenly averted his eyes as well, Aragorn was even more bemused. But when he thought to inquire what ailed the younger twin, the older one smoothly intervened.

“There are still several minutes before the Council begins, Estel, ” he said. “Why not spend them with Arwen? She is by herself in the Hall of Fire.”

The mention of the Elf-maiden’s name was enough to distract the Ranger from his curiosity regarding Elrohir’s discomfiture. With a smile, he turned to go. But before departing, he glanced at the twins once more.

“You will attend the Council?” he inquired.

“We will,” Elladan said. “But do not expect us to sit openly amongst you.”

Aragorn nodded and went on his way, comprehending Elladan’s cryptic reply. 

The brethren seldom showed themselves in such portentous gatherings for they were Elrond’s watchers. They observed the participants of these meetings without being seen and thus perceived the hearts and minds of those their father dealt with. What they gleaned soon made it to Elrond’s ears and the Elvenlord based much of his subsequent decisions on their discoveries, such was his trust in his sons’ perspicuity.

When Aragorn was out of earshot, Elladan looked sympathetically at his brother. “Are you all right?” he asked. When the Elf-knight nodded, he asked. “How long has it been?”

Elrohir sighed then shrugged. “Four and forty years,” he replied. “I pray this will be my last long parting from him.”

“You know it will not be,” Elladan gently reminded him. “You foresaw long ago that there will be one lengthier than all your previous separations. You took it stoutly enough when you first envisioned it.”

“But I did not feel then as I do now,” Elrohir pointed out. With a slight gesture to Elladan to follow, he walked back along the terrace to return to the main wing of the house.

“You will tell him soon, I hope,” Elladan murmured.

“When we meet again, yea, I will tell him,” Elrohir said.

The older twin smiled faintly. It seemed almost incredible but what his brother had long sought had finally come to fruition. And the irony of the matter was that the answer had been in his keeping all these long centuries. Then again, who else could have won Elrohir’s heart but the Elf he had loved in all other ways for almost a full millennium?

Not that Elrohir had come to this realization all that swiftly. Elladan suspected that it had lurked in his twin’s heart since the night he first lay with Legolas but given Elrohir’s penchant for protecting the archer even from himself if need be, had been labeled by his brother as nothing more than a deep appreciation for the archer’s graces. However, such self-deception had not withstood the scorching yet tender unions that had been Legolas’s means to succor Elrohir in the aftermath of their mother’s unhappy departure from Middle-earth. 

In yielding to the woodland prince, Elrohir had unwittingly freed that part of his heart that had known all along that he belonged to Legolas and Legolas alone.

The Elf-knight had struggled with the discovery ever since, reluctant to admit that he cared in a distinctly non-platonic manner for one he’d had a part in raising . But the last four decades had seen him apart from Legolas on account of duty and errantry, both noble and filial. He had missed the prince beyond forbearance, yearning not simply for the heady satisfaction of their couplings, but even more for the sound of Legolas’s laughter, the sparkle in his sapphire eyes and the smile that told him he was ever first in the archer’s esteem. Once Elrohir recognized the futility of fighting the truth, he had finally surrendered to it.

Elladan clapped a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “After all this time, who would have imagined it would come to this,” he remarked. “I envy you, _tôren_.”—my brother.

Elrohir shook his head. “‘Tis too soon for that,” he retorted. “I have not yet gained what I seek.”

Elladan snorted. “As if Legolas feels differently,” he said.

“He might,” Elrohir replied. “He has said nothing about his feelings and that sometimes gives me reason to doubt that he feels as I do. I have only lately come to this knowledge of my heart else I would have spoken of it to him sooner. What if he has kept silent because there is nothing there for him to tell me?”

Elladan looked sharply at him. He had heard the faint note of apprehension in his brother’s voice. “But what do you read in him?” he persisted. “Do you believe he shares your sentiment or not?”

Elrohir hesitated, thinking of all that had passed between him and the woodland prince, both in word and action. After a moment, a soft smile creased his mouth. “I think he does,” he admitted.

Heartened, Elladan grinned back. “And you have ever been a most discerning Elf,” he said. “Tell him, brother, and rejoice.”

Elrohir was about to reprove him for his too precipitate enthusiasm when one of the stewards hailed them as they skirted the main hall.

“My lords, Prince Legolas has just ridden in,” the Elf told them.

Surprised, the twins barely acknowledged the news before sprinting towards the hall and the main door. Legolas swept in almost as soon as they reached the threshold, followed by several Mirkwood warriors. He was frowning fiercely and looked quite ready to erupt into a full-blown fit of temper at the slightest provocation.

“Legolas!” Elrohir exclaimed as he caught his friend in a welcoming hug. “What brings you here so suddenly?”

The archer hugged him back tightly then pulled back, the frown evolving into a scowl.

“I come hotfoot with news,” he explained tightly. “Where are Mithrandir and Aragorn? Word reached us that they are here.”

“Aye, they both are,” Elladan said. “What is wrong, _ernil neth_? You are overwrought.”

“So would you be in my straits,” Legolas snorted. “Ah, when I get my hands again on that little beast, I swear I will throttle the very life out of him!”

“What beast?” Elrohir queried. “You are not making sense.”

Legolas tried to calm down a bit. “That smelly creature Aragorn brought to us some months back,” he explained, his tone still somewhat rancorous. “He managed to elude us. Sméagol has escaped.”

The brethren jointly gasped. Just then a bell sounded.

“‘Tis the summons to the Council,” Elladan said.

Elrohir took the archer by the arm. “Come, Legolas, I think you had best attend it,” he advised.

* * * *

Legolas’s scowl returned deeper than ever after the meeting. As soon as Elrohir was able, he freed himself from the discussions with Gandalf and Aragorn that took place immediately after in his father’s study. Whereupon he hastened to his friend and took him aside to allow him to vent his anger and frustration upon learning of the import of Gollum’s escape from the Wood-elves’ custody. They sauntered down the paved terrace where he and Elladan had earlier lingered. Legolas was verily disturbed, alarmingly so.

“Sweet Eru!” he hissed vituperatively. “The One Ring! I can hardly believe that black-hearted creature bore it for so long!” He punched a slender pillar in rage; would have repeated it had Elrohir not stopped him. “And we let him escape! Ah, the Wood-elves’ honor is stained this day!”

“Nay, Legolas,” Elrohir mildly reproached him. “You did not know of the significance of your charge. ‘Tis a pity neither Mithrandir nor Estel enlightened you a little more, though I warrant they had their reasons for keeping the full truth from your father at the time.”

“That does not change the fact that they gave this-this Gollum into our keeping and we lost the foul creature!” Legolas almost spat out. “ _I_ lost him.”

“You?” Elrohir said in surprise. A moment later, he understood. “You were on watch when he escaped?” he queried.

Legolas nodded, blue eyes almost black with ire. “And fool that I was I thought we had him well in hand,” he said. “I never thought a thing like Gollum would warrant aid from without. I lost good soldiers because of my carelessness.”

Elrohir shook his head. “You did not know,” he insisted. “How could you guard against something you had no inkling of? Do not blame yourself, _mellonen_. No one does.”

“Aragorn did,” Legolas scowled again. “You heard him. How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust indeed! And all I could plead was the kindness of Elves—and have that thrown back in my teeth by a Dwarf!”

“Estel was only so perturbed by your news,” Elrohir pointed out. “I wager he regretted his words as soon he uttered them. And Glóin ought not to have dredged up old grievances. Now is not the time for a renewal of quarrels.” He compelled the irate Elf to turn and face him. “Do not let this color your judgment of anything, Legolas. Least of all yourself. ‘Twas not your fault anymore than ‘twas Bilbo’s fault to have picked up that damned Ring when he did.”

Legolas glared at him, his fury still ablaze within. But after several moments, the blaze softened to a glitter and he gazed at Elrohir with something far more potent than anger. Blind need flashed in the Wood-elf’s eyes.

Unmindful of possible passersby, he grabbed a startled Elf-knight and pulled him into an ardent kiss, almost forcing the twin’s lips apart in his haste to plumb the silken reaches of his mouth. Near undone by such a searing response, Elrohir was slow to take heed of possible witnesses. He only managed to break away after a most thorough pillaging of his mouth.

Breathing hard, he cautioned, “Legolas, we are not alone.” When the archer’s eyes kindled mutinously, he reasoned, “I would not care but there are guests other than Elves here. They will not understand.”

Aggravation all too apparent in his face, Legolas grasped the twin’s hand and began to pull him towards the residential wing. “Then let us go where we _will_ be alone,” he growled.

Elrohir stared at his friend in amazement. Hope and elation flared within him at this fervent display of need. Could more than the Wood-elf’s fearsome wanting be far behind?

But before he could say more, Elladan accosted them. Casting an apologetic look at Legolas, he spoke to his brother.

“We have been tasked to go south and east,” he somberly announced.

Elrohir at once comprehended his twin’s meaning. “When must we leave?”

“At once,” Elladan said grimly. “Estel rides with us part of the way.”

Legolas stared in bewilderment at them. “You are leaving?” he exclaimed. “But you said you just arrived last night,” he addressed Elrohir. Before the younger twin could pacify him, he sharply asked, “Where are you off to now?”

The Elf-knight explained: “We need to scour the lands around us and see if the way is clear for the Ring-bearer. Only when we are certain of this will he set out on his quest.”

Legolas frowned. “But why does your father have to send you?” he questioned, his voice edged with annoyance. “Why not others?”

“Because we know the way best,” Elrohir quietly said. He caught the archer by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Becalm yourself, Legolas. I would see you at peace again when I return.”

The archer pursed his lips rebelliously at first but at last subsided and quietly voiced his compliance. Elrohir peered anxiously at him. “Do not do anything rash,” he suddenly said. “Think hard before you make any choices.”

Legolas gazed at him perplexed but at the insistent look in the Elf-knight’s pewter eyes, he nodded. He drew Elrohir into a hearty embrace and spared a quick glance of concern for Elladan.

“Take care, both of you,” he murmured. He could not quite suppress a frown of displeasure as the brethren finally took leave of him, but he said nothing more in protest.

As they strode away, Elladan looked at Elrohir curiously. “What was that about?” he inquired. “Why did you counsel him so?”

Elrohir shook his head. “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I felt a sudden fear that he might commit himself to some thoughtless charge while we are gone.”

“Such as what?” Elladan prodded.

“I haven’t the faintest notion, _gwaniaur_. ‘Twas just a feeling.” The Elf-knight sighed with some frustration. “You know how he is when he sets himself upon a course. ‘Tis almost impossible to dissuade him from it even when ‘tis proven the way of folly.”

Elladan nodded. Yes, he knew Legolas’s mind in this area at least. “Then let us hope he does nothing more foolish than challenge Glóin to a duel,” he wryly quipped.

**************************  
Glossary:  
Narquelië – Quenya for October  
Adar - Father  
gwanur – brother or sister though a more accurate translation would be kinsman or kinswoman  
ernil neth – young prince  
mellonen - my friend  
gwaniuar - older twin

_To be continued..._


	11. Profession

_Ringarë_ T.A. 3018  
The brethren came back to Rivendell in the early hours of the eighteenth day of December, last to return of all who had ridden out to scout the lands around the vale. They spoke to no one when they arrived but immediately closeted themselves with their father in his study. What they related to him none knew or presumed, not even Gandalf or Aragorn who were thought to be in their confidence. The only certainty was that Elrond would apprise them in turn of all that had passed while they were gone.

Including the news that the Company of the Ring was nigh complete and which six intrepid souls had thus far formally sworn themselves to the task of accompanying Frodo Baggins in his perilous undertaking. This latter piece of information had the twins reeling in shock.

“Legolas is going?” Elladan gasped. “Father, how could you let him do this?”

Elrond noted the sudden pallor of Elrohir’s countenance. “He insisted on it,” he explained. “In the presence of all the others who would go. How could I tell him to desist without impugning his worth and that of his people?” He looked apologetically at his younger son. “Had he approached me in private, I could have attempted to dissuade him without touching on his Wood-elf’s honor. But in front of virtually everyone else…” He shook his head. “I am sorry, Elrohir. I knew you would not approve.”

Elrohir gritted his teeth then slammed a hand down on his father’s desk in frustration. “I should have guessed that he would do this!” he hissed. “He would make amends for allowing Gollum to escape!”

Both Elrond and Elladan drew their breaths in sharply.

“But of course!” Elladan said. “Ah, that confounded pride of his!” He scowled. “You must speak to him, brother. You must make him see the folly of his decision.”

Elrohir laughed bitterly. “Folly of his decision?” he repeated. “And is it folly for Glóin’s son to offer his services or faithful Samwise? They need not place themselves in danger. yet they will—out of duty, honor and fellowship.” His mouth tightened. “I know not how to convince him to withdraw now. I can give him no grounds that will appeal to his reason.”

Elladan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then do not use reason to persuade him,” he counselled. “Hold him here on your account. Tell him how you feel about him.”

The Elf-knight glared at him. “You would have me use that as a means to keep him here?” he said aghast. “‘Tis not the way I had thought to declare myself to him, Elladan!”

“Declare yourself?” Elrond echoed, stunned. “Splendor of Eru, he was right all those years ago!” he softly exclaimed. “But I suppose I should have expected it given your long-standing affair.” He regarded both his sons when they stared at him in curiosity. “Mithrandir foresaw this when Legolas was little more than a babe out of swaddling clothes,” he explained. Smiling faintly when Elrohir began to blush, he clapped his hand on the younger twin’s shoulder. “My felicitations, my son. Legolas will make a fine binding-mate.”

Elrohir let out a gust of breath. “‘Tis too soon to speak of espousals, _Ada_ ”—Papa—he muttered. “He does not even know of my intentions and I know nothing of his feelings in that regard.”

“Yet you believe he returns your love,” Elladan said bluntly. “You said so yourself.”

“I do believe it,” Elrohir said warily.

“Then tell him at once,” the older twin urged him. “He will not refuse you if he knows the main reason why you would keep him from going.”

Elrohir placed a hand to his suddenly throbbing forehead. “This is too sudden!” he protested. “‘Tis hardly how I had hoped to tell him!”

Elladan snorted. “Better to make haste and keep him safe than delay the telling and watch him walk into peril!” he pointed out.

Elrond raised a cautioning hand. “Elrohir is right. We cannot be certain that Legolas will respond as we desire.” Forestalling Elladan’s quick retort, he added: “However, I do agree that you must tell him, _gwanneth_ ”—younger twin—“if he is to go on this quest. ‘Twill be hazardous and we know not what might befall the Company ere they achieve their end.” His eyes softened as he considered Elrohir’s apprehensive expression. “Tell him before he leaves that he might carry your love with him even should the worst come to pass.”

When Elrohir hesitantly nodded his acquiescence, Elrond turned his thoughts back to the looming expedition and its attendant problems. He said to his sons: “Tell Mithrandir I wish to confer with him, then have Estel and the hobbits join us after. I would have Frodo affirm his commitment to this enterprise.”

* * * *

As soon as their father’s talk with the hobbits was done, the brethren confronted the archer in the Hall of Fire where he had been avidly listening to a lively debate between Boromir and some well-travelled Elves regarding the route the company ought to take on the trek south. As soon as they walked in, Legolas guessed what was afoot for their countenances were grim and troubled. He leaped to his feet and hastened to greet them. That they swiftly took him aside to a secluded corner confirmed his suspicion of the reason for their unsmiling miens.

“You are back,” he said, an uncertain smile of his own not quite curling his lips. “And not too pleased with me, I dare say.”

“How can you expect us to be?” Elladan said tartly. “To come back and find you have committed yourself to the quest without so much as a by-your-leave is hardly a delightful surprise!”

Legolas glanced at Elrohir. The Elf-knight was regarding him impassively—alarmingly so. “I am sorry if I have offended you in this respect,” he said carefully. “But when your father sought volunteers from amongst the Elves, I had to ensure that I would have a place in the company.”

Elrohir’s eyes narrowed. “Then you had meant to offer yourself even before we left,” he murmured. At Legolas’s guilty start, he said, “You made up your mind during the Council yet you did not tell us.”

Legolas sighed. “I cannot deny that,” he admitted.

Elladan shook his head, muttering something under his breath about mule-headed woodland archers. Legolas glared at him in umbrage only to subside when he noticed Elrohir’s reproachful expression. Chastened, he placed a placating hand on the Elf-knight’s arm.

“Forgive me, _pen vell_ ”—dear one—he softly said. “I know you cannot like this but I must take this road. You know I must.”

“Gollum’s escape was no stain on your honor, Legolas,” Elrohir said tightly. “And I asked you not to make any rash decisions while I was gone.” He pulled away in frustration. “I thought I had some sway with you but it seems I was mistaken.”

Legolas’s eyes widened, taken aback by the younger twin’s uncharacteristic pique with him. “You do have sway!” he insisted. “But this is something I have to do. Surely you understand this, Elrohir.”

Suddenly feeling weary, Elrohir abruptly said, “I understand all too well. If this is the only way you feel you can absolve yourself of whatever blame you believe is yours—so be it.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left the hall, leaving his brother and friend to stare after him, the first in sympathy, the other in consternation.

Elladan resisted the temptation to throw up his hands in exasperation and simply said to the archer: “Well, that should please you. He has given you his blessings!” He gave in to the impulse to roll his eyes and left the hall as well.

Stunned by Elrohir’s precipitate abandonment, Legolas silently returned to his place. But he heard little of the continued debate.

* * * *

Midnight approached but sleep continued to elude the woodland prince. Legolas tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find rest even in his waking dreams. For the memory of his less than happy encounter with Elrohir lingered and intruded on his consciousness without respite and darkened whatever pathways his mind attempted to follow.

The Elf-knight had not returned to the Hall of Fire when Elrond announced soon after that the hobbits, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, had insisted on completing the company’s number. Though surprised by the younger Halflings’ unexpected gumption, Legolas had not opposed their inclusion, trusting to Elrond and Gandalf’s wisdom in the matter. But he had been troubled when Elrohir did not attend so vital a moment and stayed away from him for the remainder of the day.

The thought of going to the Elf-knight and apologizing had nagged at him but he had resisted the impulse. For he was just as certain such a gesture would only lead Elrohir to try and convince him to withdraw from the quest. And that Legolas could not do.

But the non-resolution of their unprecedented spat now left him restless and morose. Never had they parted on unfriendly terms before – even the mildest arguments had always been settled to their mutual satisfaction. Legolas lay back and stared unseeingly at the coffered ceiling. It looked to be a long and lonesome night.

The door opened. Startled, the archer hurriedly sat up. A moment later, his heart near leaped with relief when Elrohir quietly entered the chamber clad in naught but a night-robe.

“Elrohir!” he softly exclaimed, moving to clamber out of bed. “I feared you were still—”

A gesture from the Elf-knight both stopped and silenced him. He stared as the warrior shed his robe. The mere sight of the other’s bared beauty inflamed him almost at once and he held out his arms to the twin. Elrohir slipped into the bed and into his embrace. Feeling his lover’s hands tug the lacings on his bed-trousers loose, he lifted his hips to permit the garment to be eased down and off him.

Their mouths met in searing union. No words were needed to express the yearning of their bodies. No speech could evince the deep longing more than two score years apart could evoke.

Legolas clutched the Elf-knight to himself, savoring the heated press of their bodies, seeking the mingling of thoughts and emotions that made his couplings with Elrohir so different and memorable when compared to all his other experiences in the carnal arts. His need was all the more heightened by their disagreement earlier in the day. Fleeting though it had been, it was the first Legolas could recall that had not been resolved almost as soon as it had started. The first he’d had to endure the consequences of by himself while apprehensiveness and loneliness gnawed at him.

It spurred him to take as much as he could of this joining. He would carry the memory with him on his journey; use it to buttress his spirits when they were low or threatened to fail entirely.

Elrohir sensed his near desperation for their singular intimacy. Not for a moment did he allow their bodies to lose contact, his hands constantly stroking and fondling while he plied his lips and tongue and teeth on flushed, simmering flesh. Legolas moaned as he was steadily unravelled; cried out when he was at last drawn into the moist warmth of Elrohir’s mouth.

He always let go when in the Elf-knight’s thrall. In Elrohir’s arms, he did not need to retreat behind a wall of discipline and mastery. He could be himself and give of himself as wholly as he desired. In their shared bed, he could be as helpless as he was masterful; as wanton or as tender as his mood dictated.

With Elrohir, he knew complete freedom and the abandoned ecstasy that came with such freedom.

Sobbing, he gave in to his body’s craving, spending himself fulsomely, trembling and moaning as he was milked almost beyond forbearance. He lay limply for several moments after while Elrohir crept up to lie beside him once more. The feel of the twin’s rigid length against his hip served as an eloquent reminder of the Elf-knight’s still unabated arousal. Desire burgeoned anew in Legolas’s loins. He did not wait for his strength to return, but pulled Elrohir atop him, and lifted his legs to lock them around the twin’s waist. The mute invitation was swiftly answered.

He was speared and delved with a hardiness and speed that bespoke the Elf-knight’s own longing for him. Legolas wondered if his lover had denied himself these last four and forty years as he had—the prince had simply been unable to abide yet another body that was not Elrohir’s in his bed and thus refused any and all offers to quench his hunger. The thought that perhaps they had shared this so very rarified yearning and chosen continence over indulgence as a result stoked the renewed fire within him into a virtual conflagration, raging through every vein and nerve and sinew of his body. His shaft, so recently tended to blissful completion, surged anon into thrumming vigor and began to clamor for yet another rapturous culmination.

Elrohir did not leave his need unattended but reached for it and stroked him even as he drove deep and hard into his quivering form. Legolas groaned, gasped and begged as the exquisite sensation of unravelling blossomed inexorably, bringing him ever closer to the point of eruption. And then it did and he was crying out Elrohir’s name, grasping convulsively at his shoulders while his body jerked with every spurt of pearlescent cream into the Elf-knight’s hand.

Involuntarily, he tightened himself around Elrohir’s thick shaft and in so doing wrenched the last vestige of control the Elf-knight still possessed over his own body. Gasping, Elrohir buried himself to the hilt and spilt his seed deep within the one and only being with whom he had ever shared more than just his body or the merest fraction of his mind or heart.

They stayed joined for a long while, relishing the feeling of wondrous closeness their couplings always wrought. When Elrohir finally withdrew from him, Legolas could not bear even the fleeting separation and at once turned into the twin’s arms and sank gratefully into his embrace. There was no haven on Middle-earth like the Elf-knight’s caring arms.

Kisses were pressed to his golden crown. A hand so strong it could break an orc’s neck, stroked his hair with utmost gentleness. Legolas nuzzled his face against Elrohir’s throat then nibbled at a hard shoulder, ghosting his lips over the silvery scar upon it, a memento of the twin’s years in errantry.

“I am glad you are no longer enraged with me,” he murmured, breaking the silence at last.

Elrohir sighed and bestowed a tender kiss on his brow. “I was not enraged with you,” he amended. “I was only overcome with fear for your safety. Had the hobbits not spoken first, I would have offered to join the company as well.” He smiled sadly at Legolas’s expression of surprise and the ensuing disappointment. “‘Twas this denial of my desire to be with you on this hazardous journey that made me less than amiable earlier. And, yea, some displeasure that you did not await my return ere making so grievous a choice.”

“After you asked me to abstain,” Legolas quietly finished. “I confess, I did not dare wait. Not that I do not cherish your counsel, but I knew you would seek to stop me. I could not risk that.”

He winced when Elrohir ceased to stroke his hair, but relaxed when he was only held more tightly. “I suspected that to be the case,” Elrohir said in a low voice. “Yet if there was something I could say that might yet change your mind, I would utter it.”

At length, the younger twin released him though not entirely for while he urged them both to sit up, he drew Legolas against his shoulder. The archer looked curiously at him, recognizing the signs of an impending talk of considerable gravity.

“There is yet another reason for my distress over your choice,” the twin quietly said. “If I do not wish for you to walk into peril, ‘tis because I cannot bear losing you.” He stroked the archer’s cheek, biting his lip before continuing. “I had not thought to broach this matter to you so suddenly, but time is not on our side. I would have you know this truth before you leave.”

“What truth?” Legolas softly queried, wondering at Elrohir’s uncertainty. It was so unlike the warrior not to be confident of the course he was taking.

“That my heart has long been in your keeping though you did not know it,” Elrohir murmured.

Legolas stiffened, then pulled away to turn and stare at the warrior in patent shock. He sought to speak but no words emerged and he could only continue to stare at his lover. Noting Legolas’s startled reaction, Elrohir strove to be clearer about his meaning.

“The words have never been said, but in truth a formal binding would only affirm what is here,” he said, briefly placing his clenched fist over his heart. “I love you, my Greenleaf. I have belonged to you these many years, heart, body and spirit. How could I not begrudge parting from you now?”

Legolas swallowed hard, his eyes clouded by confusion. After a moment, he turned and looked down at his capable archer’s hands where they lay on his lap and clenched them briefly. He had not expected such a confession. Indeed, he had never even thought of his centuries-long relationship with the Elf-knight in that guise. All these years, he had known the comfort and caring of their closeness even unto the binding of their bodies.

But not their hearts.

He had never considered what other emotions might lurk within his heart, much less Elrohir’s. Had not taken his own feelings apart and examined them for more than the deep platonic affection he harbored for his dearest friend, his inexplicable lust for the warrior notwithstanding. He had simply regarded their admittedly unique relationship as a rarely bestowed blessing from the Powers and accepted it as such. With much gratitude and appreciation but no more. He had not expected romantic love to encroach on the comfortable intimacy he shared with Elrohir.

His mind in turmoil, he did not pause to consider the effects of whatever words he might utter. And so he said the first thing that made any sense to him in his befuddlement.

“You would resort to a jest just to dissuade me from leaving on this venture!” he blurted out.

Silence greeted his reply. Fraught silence. And then he felt the bed dip as Elrohir left it. He turned his head sharply in time to see the Elf-knight catch up his robe and don it. Speechless at first, he watched the warrior head for the door. He found his tongue when the twin opened it.

“Elrohir!” he cried out in alarm. “Where are you going?”

Elrohir stopped. It was a breathless moment before he glanced over his shoulder at the archer. Legolas felt his heart lurch painfully at the anguish he saw in the argent depths.

“‘Twas no jest, _ernilen_ ”—my prince—Elrohir said in a hushed voice.

And then he was gone leaving Legolas to stare in stricken silence at the door, his heart pounding madly before it sank to the pit of his suddenly unruly stomach.

***********************  
Glossary:  
Ringarë – Quenya for December

_To be continued..._


	12. Rift

Shocked into momentary immobility, Legolas was slow to react. But once the enormity of his folly dawned on him, he was galvanized into full action. Scrambling out of bed, he grabbed his nightclothes, threw them on and dashed out after Elrohir.

He hurried to the Elf-knight’s bedchamber while his mind sought to compose an adequate apology. That is, if there was any apology adequate enough to balm the wound he had inflicted with his injurious words. But a peek inside the darkened room informed him that Elrohir had not returned there. The conjecture that the warrior would surely seek his twin’s company and comfort sent him racing to Elladan’s apartments.

To his dismay, he found the older twin’s room empty as well, the not quite closed door and hastily thrown back bedcovers evidence of a hasty exit. The brethren had departed for Elbereth only knew where. Legolas sagged against the wall, his slender frame tremulous with anxiety.

They would not have left the Last Homely House. Not in this chill weather and clad in mere bed-robes. But there were numerous bedchambers in the house where they could have secreted themselves. Legolas knew it would be impossible to locate them without disturbing the sleep of a good many others along the way.

Ah, curse his wayward tongue! Whatever had possessed him to utter such a criminally ludicrous answer to the Elf-knight’s declaration of love? Granted that he had been shaken to the very foundations of his soul and his thoughts thrown into chaos—that was still no excuse for responding as he had to so sweet and heartfelt a profession as that which Elrohir had made to him. It should have been received with pleasure and graciousness; should have awed and humbled him that the warrior could care for him so. But instead of greeting the confession with the affection it deserved… 

Legolas cringed inwardly as he remembered once more the look in Elrohir’s eyes just before he slipped out the door. In that instant, the earlier chasm had reopened between them, wider and deeper than before.

Feeling as if his heart would burst, the archer returned to his room. He had no choice but to await the next day’s dawning. Until then, he could only hope he had not irreparably tarnished his precious relationship with Elrohir.

But the following morning brought no relief for his misery. Neither twin appeared at the morning meal. Both were conspicuously absent from the day’s various meetings concerning the upcoming quest. And neither showed up at any of their usual haunts for the rest of the day. Most frustrating of all was that no one could tell him where they were. It seemed the brethren had elected to keep their whereabouts a secret even from their father and sister.

To prevent them from telling me in turn, Legolas thought dolefully as he tramped back from the barracks to the house. He wondered what they were doing. He tried not to imagine what they might talk about for it was certain he would be at the center of their discussions and not in a flattering light at that.

Nightfall finally brought him some respite though he later thought it no respite at all for the grief it caused him. He was on his way to Elrond’s study to help him draft a letter to his father in Mirkwood explaining Legolas’ decision to join the Fellowship. He did not blame Elrond for wishing to personally inform Thranduil of this turn of events. The Elvenking would not be pleased at all to learn that his youngest had chosen to embark on so perilous an undertaking. He would be even more displeased if he learned of it from other sources.

As he rounded the corner of the corridor heading toward the study, he sighted a familiar tall figure just exiting the room. For one thrilling moment he thought it was Elrohir. But in the next instant, he realized it was Elladan. Well, better one twin rather than none at all, he thought as he sprinted to intercept the warrior.

Elladan frowned reprovingly when he found his way blocked by one determined woodland prince. Yet he did not brush past Legolas, but looked pointedly at him while waiting for the latter to state his reason for staying him. Under his considerably lukewarm regard, the archer found himself flushing with renewed guilt and shame.

“I have been looking for Elrohir all day,” he said hesitantly.

“He does not wish to be found,” Elladan bluntly replied. “Least of all by you.”

Keenly feeling the sting of the terse refusal, Legolas retorted somewhat heatedly, “But I have to talk to him! To explain about last night. You must bring me to him!”

Elladan adamantly shook his head. “Leave him be, Legolas,” he curtly said. “Let him lick his wounds in solitude.”

Legolas visibly flinched at the image the warrior’s words conjured. He looked away, hands clenching and unclenching in his frustration.

“I did not mean to hurt him,” he whispered.

“I know you did not,” Elladan coolly acknowledged. “If you spoke carelessly ‘tis because you take him for granted.” Scowling at the prince’s startled reaction, he continued with his charge: “You often give no thought to the effects of your words or actions on him. So willingly has my brother catered to your needs but you do not always consider his. You have grown so complacent in your confidence of his faithful regard that ‘tis no wonder so coveted a thing as his hard-won love proved of little consequence to you.”

“Nay, that is not so!” Legolas exclaimed, horrified that Elrohir might believe this of him. He placed a chilled hand to his brow. “Mayhap you are right and I have indeed treated him with less esteem than he deserves,” he conceded shakily. “But ‘twas never my intent to pain him so. I would never do him harm, Elladan.”

“Yet you did do him harm,” Elladan caustically pointed out. “You not only hurt him, but humiliated him as well.” Ignoring the Wood-elf’s pained gasp, he added: “Elrohir does not wear his pride openly, but it is there nonetheless. When you made light of his confession—”

His innate benevolence resurfacing, Elladan stopped when the archer’s countenance blanched to a startling degree. “He is not ready to face you just yet,” he finished in a more kindly tone.

Legolas bowed his head in shame. “Will he see me before I leave?” he mumbled.

“I do not know,” Elladan replied honestly.

The archer swallowed hard then lifted his head. His eyes were unnaturally bright and his mouth quivered ever so faintly though he fought to still it. “I cannot bear to go without knowing his forgiveness,” he said entreatingly. “Please tell him this.”

Elladan only nodded his acquiescence before going on down the hallway. Legolas leaned disconsolately against the wall, wondering if Elrohir would hearken to his plea. Not that he deserved any consideration from the Elf-knight, he thought forlornly. Sighing, he straightened and went on to Elrond’s study.

* * * *

He did not reap much comfort in the days that followed. Days that swept by with unwelcome speed.

The week passed more swiftly than any of the Fellowship could like. In seven days since the brethren’s return to the valley, the Company would have to leave it, Elrond had said. The seven days came to an end all too soon.

During the course of the week, the possible routes the Company might take and the probabilities of danger and succor were discussed repeatedly until the hobbits were all but swooning from the surfeit of information. Weapons were readied, Aragorn’s Anduril being treated with special reverence when it was reforged. What spare gear the Company would take with them was prepared with the Elves’ usual efficiency and care.

On the last day, a final round of instruction was given in Elrond’s study. Later, as the winter sun slowly sank below the horizon, farewells played out in the great hall by the fire.

The hobbits spent every possible moment with Bilbo, saddened that they must leave him behind. Aragorn took leave of his beloved Evenstar. Glóin bestowed his blessings upon his son Gimli. And Mithrandir spoke long with Elrond regarding any concerns they might have missed.

Boromir of Gondor bade no one in particular goodbye. And it seemed neither did Legolas of Mirkwood; he was not seen in the hall.

The woodland prince had retreated to his room right after the meeting with the rest of the Fellowship in Elrond’s study, his face a cool mask that belied the turmoil and sense of bereavement in his heart. There was only one he longed to speak with ere the Company departed but that one had evaded him throughout the week. He did not care to make any public farewells if Elrohir would not be there to see him off.

Now, as he gave the contents of his small travelling pack a final perusal, he considered the bleakness of his situation. He would be leaving on the quest without the Elf-knight’s pardon. Would be parted from his most cherished friend with this dreadful division between them.

He slung the pack across his back along with his quiver and picked up his bow. His thoughts continued along their gloomy path. If he perished in the course of this venture, he would do so without the certitude of Elrohir’s constant regard to ease his passing to the Halls of Awaiting.

This last realization struck him hard and he despondently sank down onto the edge of his bed. His eyes stung and his throat ached as he fought to keep from weeping. Feeling as lost and forsaken as an orphaned Elfling in a jostling crowd of strangers, he brushed his incipient tears away with the back of his hand.

“Legolas?”

The archer tensed upon hearing the hushed query. He lifted his head and caught his breath. Elrohir stood on the threshold of his chamber. He lurched to his feet and hastened toward the warrior. Elrohir met him halfway.

“Oh Valar!” Legolas whispered tightly, all but clutching at the twin’s shoulders. “I thought you would stay away! Where have you been all this time?”

“In the old nursery rooms,” the Elf-knight answered. “Where Elladan and I spent our childhood days.” At the archer’s bemused reaction, he explained, “You would never have thought to look for me there.”

Legolas felt as if he had been slapped. “Then Elladan was right,” he said mournfully. “You truly did not wish to see me.”

Elrohir did not attempt to pretend otherwise but only said, “Not at once. I could not bear—” He broke off with a shake of his head. “No matter. That is not why I am here. I came to give you this.”

Legolas started as his hands were taken and something slipped into them. He stared in astonishment at the twin’s gift. 

Housed in its fine leather sheath was Elrohir’s long white knife. An heirloom weapon harking back to the Elder days; one half of a pair first wielded by Tuor in Gondolin then used by Eärendil ere they came to Elrond who in turn handed them to his sons when they reached their majority. The twins had borne them ever since, using them to deadly effect upon their foes. Legolas had never seen Elrohir without it whether he ventured into battle, the chase or errantry.

Legolas gazed at Elrohir in wonderment. The Elf-knight compelled him to curl his fingers around the weapon.

“If I cannot go with you, then I would have you take a part of me with you, _ernilen_ ”—my prince—he softly explained. “It would ease my heart to know you armed with this.”

Legolas swallowed hard then wordlessly strapped the knife in its sheath to his belt. Elrohir smiled faintly then turned toward the door.

“Come, the others have gathered in the Hall of Fire,” he said glancing over his shoulder. “You should join them.”

Legolas grasped his wrist. “Wait!” he cried. “There is something I must ask of you.”

Elrohir halted and turned back to face the archer.

Legolas searched his face beseechingly. “Forgive me, Elrohir,” he pleaded. “It was thoughtless—nay, cruel of me to belittle your declaration. I know I have proved myself unworthy of your regard, but I would beg your pardon at least.” He dared to step closer to the warrior. “Please, do not send me away in anger,” he whispered. “I cannot bear it.”

Elrohir fell silent for a space then sighed and looked at him sadly. “‘Tis I who should beg forgiveness,” he said. “It was presumptuous of me to believe that you felt as I did. And then I fled and stayed away instead of threshing this out with you. I am sorry, Legolas.”

The archer stared at him, taken aback that he should now strive to lift his spirits at his own expense. Uncaring of a possible rebuff, he threw his arms around the Elf-knight. “I do not wish to lose my dearest friend, the one I love and esteem above all others,” he implored. “Please, Elrohir, do not cast me aside.”

He could have sobbed out loud in relief when he felt the Elf-knight’s arms enfold him, hugging him back.

“I would never cast you aside,” Elrohir assured him. “I still hold you closest to my heart of all my kith. That remains and always will, no matter what the future bodes for us.” He drew back and cupped the prince’s face. “It is of no import how I love you, Legolas. Only that I do. Always remember that.”

Legolas nodded mutely, too overcome with emotion to speak. With a gentleness that left the archer trembling like a leaf in a brisk breeze, Elrohir pressed his lips to the prince’s brow.

A fit of longing hit the archer and he quickly chased after the warrior’s lips, capturing them in a kiss that begged for the closure of the rift between them. He feared Elrohir would balk and push him away and tightened his hold on the twin.

But Elrohir proved his heart true and returned the caress, clearly conveying his willingness to try and heal their suddenly fractured relationship. The prince was acutely aware that, with his departure, matters could not be wholly mended. But at least, this was a start. Much heartened, he anchored himself on his Elf-knight’s tenderness and found the wherewithal to put on a composed face when their embrace ended.

Elrohir held out his hand and Legolas slipped his into it. Together, they left the room and strode to the Hall of Fire.

_To be continued…_


	13. Seeking

Lothórien, _Ninúi_ T.A. 3019  
The warrior maid stalked onto the archery yard by the eastward portion of the encircling wall of Caras Galadon, her impatience apparent on her features. Her expression lightened as soon as she sighted her quarry. She rapidly approached the Elf who had just finished with his morning’s drill.

“Duindir, you laggard!” she called out. “Why are you lingering here when we are needed at—” She stopped and peered closely at her comrade-in-arms. “What is that on your jaw?” When the other Elf scowled, she pressed on. “And who dared to treat you so roughly?”

The guard sighed and reluctantly replied, “The Mirkwood prince.” 

The _elleth_ —Elf-maid—chuckled. “Oho, I had heard you received a rather cold reception from him last night, but not the extent of it. My, but that is a lovely bruise, my friend."

“‘Tis no laughing matter, Lalwen,” he growled. “Valar, but it smarts!” Duindir rubbed his jaw gingerly. “His appearance is deceiving. I had not thought so sweet-featured an Elf could be so swift and forceful with his fist!”

“You got nothing more than you deserved,” she told him. “Importuning him so impertinently. ‘Tis a wonder he did not gut you as well.”

“I would not have approached him had I thought him uninterested,” Duindir protested.

The warrior maid snorted. “Ha! Which is why you now nurse a purpled jaw instead of snuggling up to a warm Mirkwood Elf! Pray tell, why did you think him interested? Because he smiled so charmingly at you at dinner? Fie on you, foolish one. He has bestowed that same smile on others. But have you heard of any he actually took to his bed? What made you think yourself different?”

He stared at her in surprise. “He has not bedded any since the Company’s arrival?” he said.

“None.”

“Why not? Are the Galadhrim not fair enough for him?” Duindir demanded, bristling a bit.

Lalwen shook her head. “‘Tis not that he is indifferent to us,” she said. “He eyes us all as appreciatively as any hot-blooded Elf. I wager he simply does not desire any enough for a tumble.” The warrior maid paused then murmured musingly, “But then I would be more selective myself if I’d had one of Lord Elrond’s sons between my legs.”

“Then the stories are true?” her companion prodded in patent curiosity. “He is Lord Elrohir’s favored tryst-mate?”

She grinned. “More if Haldir heard aright what Elrohir told the Lord and Lady during the brethren’s last visit.”

“Indeed!” Duindir’s interest was completely piqued. “What did Haldir hear?”

“Well, it was not as if he was in the room with them,” she laughed. “But it would seem Lord Elrohir has laid claim to the golden prince’s heart at last.”

The guard’s eyes widened. “And he told them this?” he remarked. “By Elbereth, he is brave. What if the prince rejects his claim? What with his pride—he could never show his face to the Lord and Lady again!” 

“Pish!” Lalwen scoffed. “Only a complete want-wit would turn away either of the brethren. And for one who has lain as lover with one of them for centuries—why, that would be the height of lunacy! But hurry now. Rúmil has come to fetch more guards for the northern fences. Trouble is afoot at the borders.”

The two Elf-soldiers hastened away. Neither noticed the figure that stayed hidden in the shadows of a neighboring tree.

Legolas stepped out from behind his place of concealment and eyed the departing pair frowningly. He had come to the archery yard almost on the heels of the warrior maid. But upon espying Duindir, he decided to wait hidden until the guard left. No sense making things uncomfortable for both of them after he had so emphatically turned the presumptuous _ellon_ away the night before. 

He had not intended to eavesdrop but when he heard the reference to his affair with Elrohir, he could not keep himself from listening to their conversation. Now he wondered whether it had been a good idea or not to have heard what they had to say. 

With the troubles of the Quest taking precedence over personal concerns, he had not had much time to think about his barely mended rift with Elrohir. And the first weeks in the Golden Wood had been devoted to healing his troubled spirit after living through the traumatic events in Moria. But the warriors’ discussion reminded him all over again; remembrance came surging back more keenly than ever. 

He was still as befuddled by his rowdy thoughts and feelings as he had been when he left Rivendell. Well, he did not want to remain so. Come what may, he had to put order in his mind and heart. With grim determination, he turned away and headed south. Toward the abode of Celeborn and Galadriel.

As kinsman to Celeborn, he was permitted to visit the Lord and Lady any time he desired. He did so now, hastening up the long stairs that led to the massive flet upon which their house rested. He entered the great hall, his advent at once marked by one of Galadriel’s ladies. The Elf-woman ushered him to the small private audience chamber nigh to the living quarters then hurried to inform her mistress of the prince’s arrival. 

Legolas did not wait long. Soon, Galadriel came out to greet him. “My dear lord is not here,” she said. “We are sending another company of guards to the northern border and he has gone to see them off.”

Legolas nodded. “So I heard,” he replied. “Is the situation urgent?”

Galadriel sighed and shrugged gracefully. “After the incursion following your arrival in our wood, ‘tis better to be over-prepared than rue incaution after the fact,” she said. “But let us not speak of that. Sit, young prince, and tell me what counsel you seek of me.”

Legolas stared at her in some amazement. Was he that transparent that the Lady could read his intent so easily? Or was she so discerning that little could be kept secret from her? As he took his seat before her, he decided on the latter. After all, she was the Lady of the Golden Wood. Other folk, especially the ignorant and superstitious, called her less flattering names—sorceress, witch, spellbinder—but the Firstborn recognized her astonishing insight and revered her for it. 

She was the last of the House of Finarfin to still abide in exile in Middle-earth. She possessed memory and knowledge of three ages in the world and had seen the light of the Two Trees ere they passed away. She was wise beyond the measure of most Elves in these Hither Lands. And she was Elrohir’s grandam. 

“I am confused. Elrohir told me that his heart is mine to keep,” the prince hesitantly began. At Galadriel’s encouraging nod, he went on to recount the woe that had come between them. When he was done with his tale, he said: “I never expected it and now I know not what to do. We have been friends all my life and I thought we would remain thusly forever.”

“Yet you are also lovers of long standing,” Galadriel softly commented. “As Celeborn and I were friends and lovers ere we bound to each other.”

Legolas was surprised. “You, my lady? I had thought you wed at once.”

She shook her head with a small smile. “Nay, that came much later. When we discovered that we cared for no others,” she explained. “Few Elves keep sole lovers for centuries and of these even fewer do not eventually make spouses of them. ‘Tis our nature to choose one above all to own us even when we do not realize we have done so.”

Legolas gazed at her in wide-eyed fascination. In that instant, he looked heartbreakingly young and innocent and quite forlorn. 'Ah, Elf-knight,' Galadriel thought as she regarded the archer. 'You took your prince by surprise and he so unready for it.' But then, she mused with a secret smile, one did not think clearly when one was deeply in love. The things she and Celeborn had said and done during their own courtship…! They did not bear mentioning if they hoped to keep their dignity intact in this day and age.

She turned her attention back to Legolas. She would never attempt to beguile the archer into a choice of her liking. But she would guide him into knowing his heart that he might be at peace with whatever decision he made. He would need the certainty in the dark days that would come after the Fellowship left the Golden Wood.

“I pray you will not take my queries amiss, Legolas,” she said. “But would you tell me how many lovers you have taken since the day Elrohir first taught you the bed-arts?” 

Legolas raised a golden eyebrow, startled by her directness. But he replied nonetheless. “Enough though not as numerous as word would have it. And far more maids than males,” he added as an afterthought much to his own bemusement.

“Why?”

Legolas stared at her, disconcerted by her rather impertinent question. But the Lady was serious—there was a reason for her inquiries.

“They proved disappointing,” he replied honestly.

“In comparison to my grandson?” she pressed.

Legolas hesitated then nodded, blushing ever so slightly.

“Whereas there is no comparing a maiden to him,” Galadriel gently concluded. “Hence your propensity for their company rather than Elves of your gender.”

Legolas bit his lip then sighed. “That is the toll of it,” he admitted.

“And did you keep any of them for long?”

Legolas shrugged. “‘Tis only Elrohir with whom I have trysted without cease through all these centuries. And I have not had another _ellon_ since—since Elrohir let me claim him.” He paused, struck by the realization. “Indeed, I have not bedded anyone else in more than two score years,” he remarked with some wonder.

“And Elrohir has not done so since before the day of your birth.” At Legolas’s shocked expression, she smiled faintly. “Did you not know? Ah, that is so like him not to speak of such matters unless pressed for it. It was a turning point in his life, his saving of yours. He told us long ago that he felt you would one day make or break him. He did not know how or why he felt so, he simply did.”

She waited awhile for Legolas to digest this momentous piece of information. The archer looked away—to the northwest, she noticed. Where the Last Homely House lay. Depths of emotion flickered in his jewel eyes as he stared into the distance. She could well guess what his thoughts were. 

“Tell me, prince of Mirkwood,” she ventured delicately, “of the _ellyn_ you deigned to take to your bed, how many did you allow to claim you as Elrohir did?”

Again the archer blushed, but he answered readily enough. “None. Other than Elrohir, I trust no one else enough to yield to.”

Galadriel nodded her head knowingly. “As he trusts you alone. For all his years, my grandson has only yielded to a scant handful and they his first lovers from long before you were born. Since then he has shied from yielding once more to any. Until you.” 

Legolas swallowed hard. “He never told me,” he whispered. “I assumed that ‘twas no hardship for him.”

“Oh, but it was no hardship for him,” Galadriel assured him. “Not when he trusted you with all his heart and soul.”

“Yet it seems I have not proved worthy of that trust,” Legolas said bitterly. “I hurt him, my lady. I failed him.”

“You would only have failed him if you denied the truth in your heart. If you truly feel nothing more than the love borne for a friend, you are not to be faulted. Do not take this blame upon yourself.”

“I spoke harshly,” the archer said regretfully,

“And who amongst us would be gentle upon hearing so portentous a declaration unprepared?” the Lady countered. “You were not ready for it. Even now, you still do not know what it is you feel for him.”

“But how can I know what I do feel?” Legolas asked plaintively. “I have never considered the matter before. I have always known he loved me but never the nature of it. Even less have I given much thought to the feelings I bear him.”

“That is not surprising for you have ever been so close as to have no need for the affirmation of your bond through mere words,” Galadriel pointed out. “But actions can be misconstrued; thoughts when unsaid can be hidden even from those who own them. And love is the most confounding of all feelings, as bewildering to the sage as it is to the unlearned. Yet now is the time to examine your heart,” she added. “You face grave danger; mayhap even death. Even the wisest among us cannot tell who will fall and who will prevail. Without that certitude, it would be prudent to hearken to what your heart tells you. Hear its song, Legolas. Hear and listen well.” 

Galadriel smiled as she espied the dawning light in the archer’s gentling countenance. She rose, signalling the end of their audience. He followed suit. 

She looked with compassionate eyes at the bemused Wood-elf. “I will be dispatching a message to Elrond tomorrow at first light,” she told him. “You may send your own to Elrohir if you wish.”

Legolas nodded and left the house. After dropping off his bow and quiver at the pavilion set aside for the Fellowship, he slowly made his way along the city’s paths and byways, both on the ground and among the treetops, not following any set course but simply allowing his feet to carry him where they might. And as he walked, he thought. And found his thoughts seemed clearer here than they could ever be in Mirkwood or Rivendell. 

Far from the haunts he and Elrohir frequented and their too distracting memories, he could truly examine the singular relationship he shared with the Elf-knight. View it in its entirety and not only one facet or another alone.

Not that he had been afforded the chance earlier. In the fraught days before the Company left Rivendell, he had been too much in turmoil to think clearly. The sudden and all too brief reconciliation with Elrohir had only thrown his conflicted feelings into more confusion. And he had not had the luxury of time or quiet to consider anything beyond the exigencies of each perilous day on the Quest. But in the enchanted and soothing environs of Lothlórien, his mind and heart discovered enough tranquility to see not merely what he’d always expected or presumed but also what truly was. 

Coming to the end of one wood-and-vine bridge, he glanced up and saw he had arrived beside a great mallorn, one of the tallest in the forest, at the top of which was a small talan with a simple shed perched upon it. Legolas guessed it was an old lookout point for it appeared not to be in use any longer. 

He climbed the narrow stairs and stepped onto the wooden platform. From here, he could see the endless sky. He sank down, folded his long legs before him and leaned back against one wall of the shed. And here he sat, lost in thought and memory, while the day passed him by, the morning giving way to the afternoon unnoticed, and night descended and the myriad stars twinkled in their heavenly moorings. And still he did not move until the stars began to fade and dawn began inching its rose-hued way across the firmament to herald a new day. 

In that time, Legolas looked down the long road of his years with the Elf-knight. Of the stories of drawing his first breath literally from Elrohir. Of his childhood spent cradled, sung to, taught and regaled by the younger twin.

Of his unhappiness at their first long parting and the sharp yearning for Elrohir’s company. Of his rescue by the warrior on the plains between Anduin and Mirkwood and knowing once more the full strength of their bond. 

Of coming-of-age with Elrohir at his side, beaming at him with pride and true affection. Of exhilarating days in the drill yard, fully mastering the battle-arts under the warrior’s exacting tutelage. 

Of the night lying in his arms after knowing passion for the first time and such passion as he never knew again lest it was in Elrohir’s embrace. Of succoring him in turn when the Elf-knight had needed him and the disbelief and joy of reaping his yielding.

Of the long days and lonely nights when he did not bask in his lover’s affections.

He would ache then for Elrohir—his voice, his smile, his touch. He would tumble others to assuage his longing but the relief was only fleeting for while his body might be sated for a spell, his heart’s craving was not. They were not his incomparable Elf-knight.

Legolas drew a deep, shuddery breath. _His_ Elf-knight. Sweet Eru, where had his wits flown that he had not recognized the truth long afore? He stared unseeingly at the slowly brightening sky for the longest while, filled with wonder at this belated realization of the true nature of the bond he shared with Elrohir. 

Trembling slightly from the impact of his epiphany, he rose to his feet, descended from the flet and hastened to the house of Celeborn’s head scribe, praying the Elf would not prove too testy at being roused at such an early hour. He returned to the Lord and Lady’s house soon after, a scroll tightly clutched in his hand. 

As before, Galadriel came out to greet him. He held out the scroll to her. 

“I would send this to him,” he quietly requested.

Galadriel smiled and took the letter from him. “Rest assured that he will receive it, _ernil neth_ ”—young prince—she answered.

Legolas nodded then gazed at her curiously. “Those warriors mentioned that he spoke of me to you, my lady,” he said diffidently. 

Galadriel suddenly dimpled like a young maid in the first throes of love. “Aye, and with so much reverence and affection that he recalled to my lord and me our early days of courtship in Doriath!” she laughed. “He told us of your long friendship, of his realization that he had learned to hold you closer to his heart than he’d ever expected, of his hopes that you would return it and his belief that you did. Was he mistaken?” she softly asked. 

Legolas laid glistening eyes on her. Regret mingled with cognition in the blued depths. “He was not mistaken,” he whispered. “Would that I had realized this before I left him.”

She eyed him keenly. “I warrant your heart has long sought to tell you of its yearning, but you did not heed it though not out of willfulness. Simply that you did not recognize the changes in your feelings. I cannot fault you for not hearkening at once to its plea for Elrohir did not hear his either until but lately.” She raised a hand and cupped the archer’s cheek gently. “Be at peace, Prince of Mirkwood. Your Elf-knight will know your answer ere long.” 

She waited for him to leave then returned to her bedchamber to retrieve her own message to Elrond. Her husband was seated on the couch fronting the hearth; he looked up as she entered. The gleam in his eyes told her he had heard everything.

Celeborn looked at his wife with fond amusement. “You do realize that letter will likely spur Elrohir into immediate action,” he mildly remarked.

Galadriel nestled in his waiting arms and giggled—only with her husband did she readily reveal this side of her. “As he is your grandson, that is indeed most likely,” she agreed, her eyes sparkling with almost girlish glee.

**************************  
Glossary:  
Ninúi – Sindarin for February  
Caras Galadon – city of the Galadhrim  
ellon - male Elf  
mallorn – a tree that grew exclusively in Lothlórien

_To be continued…_


	14. Confluence

Rivendell  
Elladan watched his twin saunter aimlessly beneath the beech trees in the gardens of the Last Homely House. Every once in a while, Elrohir would direct his gaze toward the south, his silvery eyes gleaming with worry and yearning and sorrow. It had been like this since the Fellowship departed. Since Legolas left.

Sighing, Elladan approached him, drawing his cloak closer around his tall frame. He and his kin had much of the Elves’ natural resistance to extremes of temperature but they were still Peredhil and that meant feeling the bite of winter on occasion. As he drew closer to his twin, the latter turned to face him, countenance expectant. They knew each other very well and Elrohir recognized in his brother’s expression the signs of an impending fraternal remonstration.

“You will worry yourself sick over him,” Elladan began with some acerbity.

Elrohir shrugged. “I cannot help it,” he said. “‘Tis difficult not to wonder if he is faring well or not.”

Elladan frowned. “I fail to see how you can be so tender in your affections with one who treated you with unwarranted flippancy,” he commented.

“He repented of it,” Elrohir reminded him. “He did not intend to hurt me, Elladan.”

“Yet he dealt you much,” the older twin countered. “He does not treasure you as he ought, Elrohir. So many would be joyful to receive even a crumb of your heart’s regard yet he turned the whole of it away. And so carelessly at that!”

Elrohir’s mouth tightened. But he could not reproach his brother for being protective of him.

“He was only so shocked by my declaration,” he said.

Elladan shook his head. “If he had paid more notice to your needs, he would have long ago seen that you love him,” he retorted.

“He _has_ paid notice to my needs, _gwaniaur_ ”—older twin—Elrohir admonished. “Else I could not have borne our mother’s fate.” At Elladan’s surprise, he pressed on. “He succored me then with all that he was and had—heart, body and spirit. Mayhap he does not love me as I do him, but I know he esteems me above all others.” His eyes strayed southwards once more. “If that is all he can give me, then I will content myself with it.”

He did not have to look at his brother to know Elladan was glaring at him with burgeoning exasperation. But he chose to ignore it. “I should not have stayed away from him in those last days,” he said instead. “‘Twas wrong of me.”

Elladan’s caustic cup ran over and he exclaimed, “You were hurting! You needed to heal the wound he so thoughtlessly inflicted on you. How could that be wrong?”

“If the worst should befall him, I will forever rue withholding myself when he most needed me,” Elrohir replied. “You say he failed me. But I failed him as well. I can only pray that we shall both be given the chance to make amends to each other. And I wish you had not castigated him that day,” he added. “It only pained him more.”

Elladan snorted. “And you were not?” he pointed out. “I love him as my brother and would have gladly called him _gwanur_.” —kinsman. “But I have long seen how he takes you for granted. Speaking without thought for your comfort, foisting on you his troubles unbidden and oft confiding even that which might cause you hurt. And you wonder that I told him so? If my words do no more than to make him take heed in his manner with you, I think it well worth it even if he never speaks to me again!”

Elrohir suddenly grasped him by the shoulders and drew him into a tight embrace. Startled, Elladan drew back and looked at him questioningly.

“Ah, my ever caring Elladan,” Elrohir said affectionately. “What would I do without you, _tôr vell_?”—dear brother. He smiled faintly. “Yet I cannot help but try and make you revise your opinion of him. Nay, listen to me,” he insisted when Elladan’s scowl threatened to return. “I am not blind to his failings. I never have been. But I love him nonetheless because I know why he treats me thusly. You feel he takes me for granted and I cannot deny that ‘tis true in many ways. But if he does, ‘tis because he trusts me utterly.”

Elladan found himself deeply moved by the tender brilliance in his twin’s eyes. He did not interrupt but waited for Elrohir to continue.

“He trusts me, Elladan,” the Elf-knight softly said. “Beyond all reason and rectitude. With me alone can he be all that he is and without shame or hesitation. If in doing so he has on occasion been heedless of my feelings, ‘twas never intentional. He simply is and always has been impetuous and straightforward, sometimes to a fault I admit. Yet I would not have him any other way. I love him, with all his flaws and all his perfections. And in entrusting himself to me, he has already gifted me with more than I could have hoped for.”

“But not his heart, _gwanneth_ ”—younger twin—Elladan quietly said. “That he did not give you and mayhap never will.”

Pain glimmered momentarily in the Elf-knight’s eyes. But then it faded and he looked staunchly at his brother “Then so be it,” he whispered. “We cannot have all that we ask for.”

Elladan shook his head. “You and Arwen are so alike,” he muttered. “You would sacrifice your very souls for the sake of your beloveds. I confess I do not understand such devotion.”

Elrohir had to smile. “Only because you have not yet found the one on whom you would bestow yours,” he pointed out. “But I wager when you do, you will prove as besotted as we.”

Elladan grimaced. “I should hope not!” he shot back. “If this is what love does to your otherwise sensible minds, then I want nothing to do with it!”

“If love means to find you, it will, brother,” Elrohir grinned. “Have no doubt about that!”

Elladan glowered at his twin, wondering how their conversation had come to center on him. He was about to make a tart reply when they were hailed from afar by Lindir. The Elf hurriedly approached them.

“Your father requests that you go to his chamber at once,” the housemaster cum minstrel told them.

The twins glanced at each other in surprise. “His chamber? Not his study?” Elladan clarified. When Lindir nodded, he frowned. “Did he say why?”

“Nay, only that it is urgent.”

The brethren hastened to Elrond’s quarters without further comment.

When they entered the chamber, they saw that their father stood by his bedside window. He was gazing at something. The twins gasped in concert when they saw what it was that held their father’s attention. A fierce-looking silver-grey haggard perched on the windowsill, silent and still. There were no markings on it or any indication of ownership.

“What in Arda—!” Elladan said.

Elrond glanced at them as they neared him and held up his hands. In one was a grey pouch, in the other two small scrolls.

While Elrohir gingerly inspected the haggard, Elrond handed Elladan one of the scrolls. Its wax seal had been broken for the Elvenlord had already read the missive. Elladan frowned for no emblem marked the seal. There was no telling just who had sent the hawk or the missives it bore.

He unrolled the parchment when Elrohir joined him and they read the message together.

 _Aragorn has need of his kindred. Let the Dúnedain ride to him in Rohan!_ (1) There was no signature.

The brothers looked at each other in bewilderment before turning their pewter gazes upon their father.

“Rohan!” Elrohir exclaimed. “Did Estel send this message?”

“It would seem the case,” Elrond said. “But I am not inclined to believe it.”

Elladan looked closely at the bird of prey then drew in a sharp breath. “Lórien,” he declared.

Elrohir stared at him. “What dire straits could have driven them to take refuge in Lórien?” he wondered. “And how could our grandparents know that Estel would seek passage through Rohan?” An instant later, he put his hand to his temple, shaking his head in belated cognition. “Of course, Grandam’s mirror.”

Elrond nodded. “That is what I suspect as well. We must waste no time but summon as many Rangers as possible. Do you know where Halbarad might be?”

“I believe he and a goodly number of his men are encamped just a few leagues north of Rivendell,” the older twin replied.

“Send word to them to come at once with as many of their kindred as they can gather.”

Elrohir frowned. “But are you certain that this message is true?” he mused. “It may be a ruse to lead them into a snare.”

Elrond smiled suddenly and said, “I am fairly certain ‘tis no ruse because of this.”

He handed the other scroll to Elrohir. The Elf-knight took it, staring at it in bemusement, then caught his breath. The label that bound it bore his name and the insignia impressed in its seal belonged to the youngest prince of Mirkwood. Without further ado, Elrohir broke the seal and unrolled the letter.

As he read its contents, his eyes were seen to soften and a smile slowly curled his lips. When he was done, he lifted so radiant a countenance to his father and brother that they were quite overcome. Elrohir turned his shining gaze on Elladan.

“Come, brother, we ride to war.”

* * * *

Rohan, _Gwaeron_ T.A. 3019  
 _Beloved._

The whinnies of horses filled the still night as the Riders readied their steeds. Twenty-four in all filled the muddied bailey of Isengard. The Rohirrim’s king and the Lord Aragorn had just bid farewell to Gandalf and the irrepressible young Took, Pippin. Now the wizard and his Hobbit-charge were on their way to beleaguered Minas Tirith, fleet Shadowfax bearing them away with astounding swiftness.

_I hope this letter will find you well._

Théoden mounted his great warhorse, stately Snowmane. It was the signal for the Riders to do so as well. Aragorn took young Merry Brandybuck with him upon Hasufel while Legolas hauled Gimli onto faithful Arod and settled the Dwarf behind him.

_Forgive me, dearest one. I wronged you grievously. More than ever I realize the error of my words._

The company rode out of Isengard into the aging night. They were returning to the gorge of Helm’s Deep and the fortress that lay within it. Legolas idly listened to Aragorn and Théoden's murmured conversation.

_For I have looked into my heart and seen naught but you at its very core._

Gimli mutteringly complained without cease about the perils of entrusting one’s self to the uncertain moods of horses. It was not the first time he had voiced his outrage at being forced to ride any of these dratted four-legged beasts. It was not likely to be the last.

_I love you, Elrohir. With all my heart and soul, I love you._

Deciding that enough insults had been heaped on his equine friend, Legolas mildly countered that the Dwarf could run all the way back to the Hornburg if he wished. Arod snorted as if in agreement. The Elf stifled a snicker when Gimli came back with a stream of Dwarvish the meaning of which was clear even if he understood not a word of it.

 _You told me you would always love me. I pray ‘tis true. Yet even if my folly has caused it to wane, I will win your regard anew._

They rode on, passing through the ruined fields of Nan Cúrunir. The Elf felt a twinge of sorrow at the willful desecration of what had once been a beauteous and fruitful valley. It was near impossible to believe that one who had been sent to aid Middle-earth should have stooped so low as to do injury to the very soil over which the Powers had been given stewardship.

 _The Valar willing, when we meet again, I will prove myself worthy of you._

The vast empty plains of the Riddermark rushed by in a dim blur as they steadily made for the Isen. Above them, the moon rode low as the night grew old. And still the Riders pressed on, eager to return to the Burg soonest.

 _You know you are mine, Elf-knight. From the moment of my birth, you belonged to me._

Poor Merry was nodding in Aragorn’s arms. The Ranger let him doze. Legolas sympathized with the Hobbit. They would not reach Helm’s Deep until the early hours of the following day if he was any judge of time and distance. Let the little one get some rest.

 _Come what may, I will have you. And stubborn Wood-elf that I am, I will never let you go._

Legolas’s hand brushed the white-hilted knife at his belt. His beloved’s weapon had stood him in good stead throughout the Battle of the Hornburg just two days past. He smiled to himself.

His letter to Elrohir had not been the most orderly of missives. Nor had he had the time to compose anything more formally worded. And so he had dispensed with order and formality and written from the heart, jotting down the words as they came to him. When he had given the letter into Galadriel’s keeping, he’d felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He had felt at peace ever since.

This peace had allowed him to bear the tragedies at Amon Hen where Boromir had been slain and the Halflings Merry and Pippin taken by orcs. It had sustained him throughout the nightmarish chase to overtake the hobbits’ abductors. It had kept him cool and collected during the harrowing battle for the fortress in Helm’s Deep even when it looked to be the last fight he would ever take part in. It had even given him the wherewithal to indulge in that ridiculous competition with Gimli, so much so he had not minded at all when his Dwarf-friend bested his number of kills by one.

In knowing his love for Elrohir at last, he had come to comprehend and thereby feel the full force of the Elf-knight’s love for him in turn.

They passed the burial mounds at the Fords of Isen. It was not too long after they crossed the fords when one of the Riders reported the approach of horsemen from behind. At once the Rohirrim prepared themselves for a possible assault. They waited tensely as the strangers neared them.

But the newly come horsemen proved an unlooked for boon as Aragorn’s joyful greeting to his kinsman Halbarad soon evinced. Legolas looked on with only half his mind paying attention to the exchange between the two Dúnedain. The sudden appearance of the Rangers of the North had served to remind him all the more acutely of the Elf-knight with whom they had oft ridden and he fought to still his longing for Elrohir.

“…but the brethren Elladan and Elrohir have ridden with us, desiring to go to the war,” he heard Halbarad say. (2)

Legolas jerked his head up in shock. Only barely concealing his sudden elation, he swiftly scanned the hooded figures on horseback. A movement caught his eyes and he returned his perusal to the midst of the company.

A rider had reached up and now drew back the hood of his cloak. Legolas nearly cried out with joy and relief when he met the rider’s gaze.

His Elf-knight’s argent gaze.

***************  
Glossary:  
haggard – a fully mature hawk  
Gwaeron – Sindarin for March

(1)(2) Passages quoted from LoTR: _Return of the King_ , Book 5, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company.

_To be continued…_


	15. Oneness

The Hornburg, Helm’s Deep  
Legolas sighed yet again as he watched the brethren maintain their places at their foster brother’s side. The twins stayed by Aragorn, conferring with him ever so often. It had been thus since the unexpected meeting by the Fords of Isen. The archer muffled an oath of sheer frustration. He had not exchanged more than formal greetings with them and certainly nothing more than a friendly clasp of the shoulders with Elrohir.

They could not behave otherwise in this land of Men. Especially a younger race of Men that had little knowledge of the histories and traditions of the Firstborn.

Amongst Aragorn’s kindred alone could they be less circumspect for even the least learned of the northern Dúnedain were cognizant enough of elven culture to turn a blind eye to their relationship even if they might not be personally comfortable with it. But the Rohirrim would be appalled were they to learn of Legolas’s long liaison with Elrond’s younger son. Now, in the midst of imminent war, was not the time to test their tolerance of practices beyond their ken.

To this end, he and the younger twin had kept apart. Had they ridden together, the temptation to speak in lovers’ tones and words, exchange ardent glances or make physical contact of far more intimacy than a comradely grip of the hand would have been too great to resist. And so they stayed beyond each other’s reach.

Legolas scowled. He understood the need for utmost discretion. But he did not have to like it.

Elrohir felt his annoyance acutely. The archer’s eyes would alight on him frequently and all but bore into his back. At other times, when he would glance over his shoulder at the prince, Legolas would capture his gaze and hold it just a fraction longer than was seemly, his mouth curving ever so slightly into a knowing smirk and his jewel eyes gleaming with another kind of menace in the dim light.

Thank Eru it was dim else who knew what these bluff-mannered men of the Mark might make of their behavior? Elrohir mused ruefully. But more troublesome than their reactions was the state of neediness that had taken hold of him under the prince’s fervent scrutiny. By Elbereth, if they did not find the opportunity to be together soonest, the Rohirrim would be treated to a display the likes of which they had probably never imagined possible!

He took to avoiding looking at Legolas lest the temptation to grab the prince and ravish him right there and then overwhelmed him. But he could not avoid the sense of being keenly regarded from behind and with an intensity that was as scalding as the molten outpourings of Orodruin. Needless to say, it did nothing to ease the strident longing in his groin.

They reached the Burg with dawn just hours away. It was decided that all should get some sleep before embarking on the toils of the coming day. Particularly the Rangers who had suffered through many days of hard riding.

Noting their weariness and their tendency toward reticence, Théoden insisted that the Dúnedain take their rest in the large chamber adjacent to the main hall. In times of peace, it was used as a private dining area whenever members of Rohan’s royal family and their guests visited the fortress. Windows lined two walls but in the long side that faced the front of the Burg, they were set in deep and narrow embrasures. A steady breeze passed through the room making it cool and airy.

Elrohir approved of the chamber. It would serve the Rangers well, not to mention two Peredhil, one Elf, a Dwarf and an all but asleep on his feet Halfling. It was not only quite comfortable, but would also afford them some solitude. This latter luxury was unquestionably welcome. He had marked how the Rohirrim constantly eyed the Rangers and Elladan and himself with a mixture of wariness and fascination. No doubt they were wondering what else could possibly come their way after having previously encountered Legolas, Gimli and the hobbits.

The brethren shed their mail and set them to one side then took out clean shirts and breeches from their packs. Best they rested in comfort; they would all but live in their armor for who knew how many days to follow. Soon after, in keeping with the tradition of the Riddermark’s rough but earnest hospitality, Théoden sent in light provenance—crusty bread, sharp cheese and nutty ale—and several basins of cool, clean water that his guests might wash off some of the dust and grime of long travel. 

For all his drowsiness, Merry happily tucked into his share of the meal and eagerly laved his face and arms and even his curly head. But the night was swiftly drawing to a close and the Rangers prudently did not linger over their meal and only indulged in the most cursory of wash-ups before taking to their beds.

The twins, however, would not forego the opportunity for a good wash and joined Legolas for thorough ablutions ere they retired. Giving his beard a hearty scrubbing, Gimli watched them in amazement, thinking to himself that only Elves could come close to taking a full bath with only a basin of water at their disposal, without completely stripping bare at any given time and still do it all with utmost grace, speed and tidiness, scarcely a drop of water spilling to the stone floor. A glance at Merry told him he was not the only one rendered astonished. The Hobbit paused in his washing to gape at their elven companions.

Refreshed, the three had just laid down their beds beside Gimli and Merry’s pallets when a gesture from Aragorn caught the brethren’s attention. They followed their foster brother into the narrow corridor that separated the chamber from the hall. Halbarad soon joined them as well.

They spoke quietly, only their expressions giving a hint as to the object of their discussion. That it was of a serious, perhaps perilous nature was clearly apparent. The brethren were seen to frown and shake their heads in worry for their mortal kinsman. Nevertheless, it was also obvious that they were ready to defer to his wishes.

At length, Elrohir said, “‘Tis not to our liking but you know your own strength, Estel. If you feel that ‘tis imperative for you to use the palantír, we will not oppose your will in this.”

“But ‘twill not be wise for Elrohir and me to accompany you,” Elladan cautioned. “If Saruman used this stone to communicate with the Dark Lord, it may betray our identities to him ere you are ready to reveal yours and challenge him.”

“Then Halbarad will come with me,” Aragorn decided.

The twins nodded in acquiescence. Elladan clapped a hand on Halbarad’s shoulder. “Do not leave his side, _gwador_ ,” he murmured. “Not even for a moment must he be left alone in this endeavor.”

Halbarad vowed: “I will stay fast by him.”

The brethren watched the two men walk down the hallway before re-entering the chamber. It was darkened now and illuminated only by moon glow and starlight. While Elladan sought his pallet, Elrohir found himself restless. And wondering where Legolas had taken himself. The Wood-elf was nowhere to be seen.

Guessing that perhaps the archer had slipped outside for a spell, he thought to peer out a window along the front wall and see if Legolas was in the vicinity.

He was just about to slip into one of the embrasures when he was startled by a softly hissed: “Elrohir!”

Surprised he stepped back and looked behind and about him. Naught but Rangers in repose or readying themselves for it were to be seen. Whence had Legolas called to him?

Shaking his head in bewilderment, he moved toward the embrasure once more. I must have imagined it, he thought.

“ _Elrohir!_ ”

The warrior stiffened in shock. Loud enough for him to hear but too soft for anyone else to have noted, the urgent whisper came from the direction of the far wall, which overlooked the side of the main building. Turning on his heel, he walked along the long wall toward it.

A strong hand shot out from within the last embrasure just as he was passing it and grasped Elrohir’s arm. The warrior gasped as he was pulled into the tapered recess and pushed abruptly against the side that was hidden from everyone’s view. An instant later, he was struggling to contain his groans while Legolas inundated his cheeks, neck and mouth with scorching kisses, his hands snaking under the Elf-knight’s shirt to stroke the muscled flesh beneath.

Trembling from the searing onslaught, Elrohir feared he would give away their play with an untimely sound of pleasure. He pulled Legolas tight against his tall frame and caught the archer’s lips in a brutal kiss, prying them apart to plunder the sweetness within. Legolas did not protest but abetted him in his own besting. 

Only after he felt himself able to maintain some silence did Elrohir gentle his maurauding to tenderly caress the now swollen lips of his prince. Tugging open the collar of Legolas’s shirt, he leaned down and marked the archer’s white skin with love-bruises from his throat down to his collarbone and along the top of his shoulder.

Legolas ran his fingers feverishly through his lover’s sable hair, tilting his head back to offer Elrohir more of his flesh. Elbereth, but he was ravenous for the Elf-knight’s loving! 

Elrohir lifted his head and captured his lips once more and he eagerly parted them for the warrior’s ravaging. It was several long moments before he could finally give voice to what he’d yearned to say from the moment he discovered him amongst the Rangers.

“Forgive me,” Legolas pleaded in hushed tones between the unions of their mouths. “Please forgive me, Elrohir.”

“Hush, _melethen_ , your letter said it all,” Elrohir murmured, pressing his lips to the archer’s smooth temple before taking draughts of his lips anew.

“Nay, ‘twas not enough,” Legolas moaned against his mouth, lifting his hands to cup the Elf-knight’s face. “‘Twill never be enough. I need to tell you again. I love you, my Elrohir.” He supped lengthily on his lover’s lips before pressing on. “I was so foolish not to have known my heart’s yearning, but I verily know it now. Forgive me for hurting you, _seron vell_ ”—beloved. “Forgive me for not cherishing you as you have long deserved.”

Elrohir sighed with contentment upon hearing his prince’s impassioned declaration. “There is naught to forgive,” he whispered. “You did nothing wrong. As I told you ere you left, I made a reckless presumption and you are not to blame for it.”

“But I—”

Whatever the archer thought to say was summarily cut off by another thorough pillaging of his mouth. He ceased to think at all but wove his arms ever more tightly around his lover and returned the kiss with boundless fervor. When Elrohir released him, he was shaking like a young beech in a storm, his need besting him as the brutal battle for the Hornburg had not.

“Please, I cannot last this night without—without—” he rasped almost incoherently. Despair limned his voice for he believed there was no way to assuage his longing. He laid his head upon the warrior’s shoulder, struggling to quell his raucous desire.

Elrohir gazed hungrily at him then glanced out at the crowded chamber. Most of the Rangers had settled down to snatch their rest. The others were unwinding, either in quiet conversation or solitary contemplation. Elladan had already dozed off. Curled up on his pallet, Merry was snoring softly. Gimli reclined beside him; the Dwarf was sharing a few words with one of the Rangers but he looked soon to drop into slumber himself. Elrohir made his decision.

He shifted their positions until the archer was flush against the hidden side of the embrasure. He pushed Legolas against the wall then reached down to unlace the latter’s breeches.

“What are you doing?” Legolas whispered, quivering violently with the loosening of his garment and the imminent release of his painfully rigid shaft.

Elrohir did not answer him but only kissed him hard. Keeping Legolas occupied with the singeing coupling of their mouths, he snuck his hand into the archer’s breeches and freed his length. Legolas groaned in patent bliss against his lips as he proceeded to firmly and rapidly stroke the slick column. The prince clung to him almost desperately, unconsciously thrusting his hips against him.

Legolas whimpered in protest when Elrohir broke their mouths’ avid embrace but Elrohir shushed him with a finger against his lips.

“Turn around,” he growlingly murmured.

The archer stared at him a moment in incredulity but the dark glitter in the Elf-knight’s eyes told him that Elrohir was serious. His breath coming in shallow gasps, Legolas quickly complied. 

He swallowed hard when his shirt was hitched up and his breeches lowered to bare his backside. And then he realized Elrohir had dropped to his knees behind him. He caught his breath as he felt himself spread for the warrior’s pleasure while a wicked hand slipped around to cup and caress him anew.

Legolas smothered a loud moan when he felt the warm swipe of the younger twin’s tongue followed by another before he was teasingly breached. He tried to dispel the images of what Elrohir was doing to him from his mind and failed as the Elf-knight continued his erotic delving. With such crimson-hued imagery invading his thoughts and serving to heighten the sensations his lover was wreaking on him, Legolas feared he would spend too soon. But the twin ceased his ministrations and rose to his feet. 

A moment later, Elrohir’s warm body pressed against him. And into him.

The prince just barely kept from calling out from the pleasurable invasion then nearly groaned aloud when Elrohir began to drive into him, taking him deep and hard and fast. He grasped at the rough wall, his fingers seeking purchase in the thin crevices between the stones, needing to brace himself against the sensual assault. The warrior did not make things any easier for him when he once more reached around the prince’s hips and took his aching shaft in hand.

Legolas gasped repeatedly as Elrohir brusquely tugged his hips back, compelling the archer to sheathe him more fully even as he firmly stroked the rigid flesh in his hand. The pace and force was punishing and all the prince could ask for. Ecstasy spiraled in his nether regions, the pressure building with furious speed and fearsome force. Legolas just knew he would not be able to silence himself.

Already whimpering and sobbing quite helplessly, he managed to turn his head and, the tightness in his voice portending a noisily acknowledged climax, moaned desperately, “Elrohir! I cannot take this! Ah, Valar! I will scream the Hornburg down!”

The pressure suddenly began to unravel in his groin and the beginnings of a wail forced itself past his lips. Elrohir swiftly reached up and around with his other hand and clapped it over the prince’s mouth. Coming completely undone, Legolas bit down hard on the Elf-knight’s palm, nearly drawing blood in the process.

Not that Elrohir felt it or cared. He, too, had been fighting to maintain his silence and some control over his body. But with the Elven prince pressed hard against him, his seductive woodland scent permeating his senses and the heated satin of his core surrounding him, it was a battle he was fated to lose. 

The sound of Legolas frantically pleading with him for succor followed by the exquisite sensations of the archer tightening spasmodically around him and warm cream coating his fingers simply and naturally finished him off. He buried his face in the crook of Legolas’s neck, sucking hard at the pale flesh to stifle his groans.

It took a few minutes before either could speak. Elrohir shifted his position to lean sideways against the wall with his back to the chamber that he might shield Legolas in turn. For the prince had sagged limply against him, nestling his golden head in the crook of Elrohir’s neck. They laced up their breeches while awaiting the calming of their bodies.

Feeling strength return to his limbs, Legolas straightened. He did not speak at once but scattered light kisses on Elrohir’s lips and cheeks. At last, he pulled slightly away and gazed at his Elf-knight with profound delight.

“That was incredible,” he whispered.

Elrohir shook his head, his eyes agleam with mischief. “‘Twas but a means to tide us over,” he murmured. “When we have more time and privacy, I will take you so hard and deep and often you will have reason to wonder if you will still be capable of charging into battle.” He lifted his hand and salaciously licked and sucked the remains of the archer’s opalescent seed from his fingers.

Legolas groaned as his body responded anew to the thrilling threat and the lubricious picture the warrior presented. “You are wicked, _meleth_ ”—love—he panted. “You will rouse me again and leave me fitful with longing.”

Elrohir laughed softly. “Then I will say no more,” he said with a naughty grin. He stole a last kiss from his now broadly beaming prince. “Come, let us rest while we can.”

They finally joined the others. Lying together, they slept, Legolas tucked into Elrohir’s side, arms wound tight about the Elf-knight, himself securely enfolded in his lover’s embrace, a smile of utter contentment bowing the archer’s rosy lips.

* * * *

The sun was high and almost all within the Burg were up and about, ready to face the day’s demands. Once again, the Elf-knight and the Elven prince stayed largely apart while the day unfolded. Elrohir went with Elladan to speak with Aragorn about his night’s vigil while Legolas joined Gimli in rousing young Merry from slumber.

None knew of the heights of passion they had earlier scaled as they walked amongst the Rohirrim. Not even Elladan was privy to his twin’s tryst with their woodland friend. At least not yet. But he could deduce what had occurred from the glow of fulfillment that enveloped Elrohir so tellingly and he had to shake his head albeit with an indulgent chuckle at the resourcefulness of lovers even in such unlikely circumstances.

Gimli, too, made his guesses. He had been duly shocked when Legolas first confided his centuries-spanning affair with the younger son of Elrond while the Fellowship rested in Lórien. But after having faced the most improbable and life-threatening of situations in the deeps of Moria, the Dwarf had decided that there were far more unspeakable things in this world than two Elves of the same gender loving each other. Certainly the aura of satisfaction that emanated from his Elf-comrade bespoke the flaring of the flame of his spirit and that was most welcome in these embattled times.

His suspicions were soon confirmed when, in response to his comment on the Rangers of the North, Legolas said, “But even as Aragorn they are courteous, if they break their silence,” then inexplicably added: “And have you marked the brethren, Elladan and Elrohir? Less sombre is their gear than the others’, and they are fair and gallant as Elvenlords; and that is not to be wondered at in the sons of Elrond of Rivendell.” (0)

Gimli looked slyly at his friend and caught the gleam of pleasure in his eyes. How he itched then to point out the absurdity of making such a remark to him and the Halfling. After all, it was not as if they had never seen the sons of Elrond before or failed to notice their comeliness. But before he could tease the archer, the Hobbit asked another question and he decided to defer his badgering until they were on the road again. 

There would be time enough then to goad Legolas into a fit. After all, there was nothing more entertaining than a thoroughly provoked and amusingly incomprehensible Wood-elf!

*******************  
Glossary:  
palantír – One of the seven Seeing-stones brought by Elendil and his sons to Middle-earth after the fall of Númenor. As Isildur’s heir, Aragorn was the rightful owner of any that still remained. He used the palantír of Orthanc during his reign to see how the whole of his realm fared.  
gwador - sworn brother  
melethen - my love

(0) Passage quoted from LoTR: _The Return of the King_ , Book 5, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company.

_To be continued…_


	16. Assignation

“Minas Tirith is burning.”

Legolas glanced at Aragorn as the Ranger moved away from the ship's bow to confer with the twins and Halbarad. He had not missed the grim anxiety in the man’s voice. He could well understand his concern. Though they were still many leagues distant from the Guarded City they could see the red glow of fire to the North. It did not help at all that there was scarcely any wind and they were moving much too slowly up the Great River despite the supreme efforts of the oarsmen. 

He peered into the dark on either side and made out the other ships and their struggling oars dipping into and rising out of the chill waters. He turned his head and looked about the deck behind him, noting the worried expressions of virtually every man. Even Gimli could not summon his usual blustery optimism. That was not surprising. The Dwarf was likely thinking along the same lines as the others.

All knew how the Grey Company had braved the dreaded Paths of the Dead, driven the enemy before them all the way to Pelargir and there, with the aid of their spectral army, captured the main fleet of Umbar. Heartened, the men of Lebennin, the Ethir and Lamedon had rallied to them. Aragorn had commandeered the ships of the corsairs and the black fleet now passed down Anduin as swiftly as it could to reach the landings at the Harlond, the river-port of the City of the Kings. But they were going against the river’s flow and only a good, strong wind could possibly lend them more speed. Would all their efforts be in vain? Would they reach Minas Tirith too late?

Yet Legolas could not feel so hopeless. He reminded himself that the Rohirrim must even now be converging on the besieged city. Surely the valiant horse-lords would stave off defeat until Aragorn could come to their aid. And then there was Mithrandir. Legolas knew in his heart that the wizard must be in the thick of things and he held to his staunch conviction that when Gandalf was about, evil was still held at bay.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeking Elrohir amongst the many who crowded the deck. But the younger twin had left the immediate vicinity. He was probably roaming the ship with Elladan, giving succor to all who needed to stouten their hearts and strengthen their will. No matter. The archer stood secure in the knowledge of his beloved’s presence. It was the third and most important reason for his confidence and hope. 

His hope was justified when at midnight the wind began to pick up. Soon a brisk sea breeze wafted up Anduin and there was a hurried hoisting of sails. The ships now passed down the river rapidly and there was a collective sigh of relief and a shiver of anticipation.

Legolas looked to his side when one of the brethren joined him. He could not quite hide his disappointment when he saw it was Elladan. The older twin smiled at his chagrin.

“Aye, ‘tis my brother you would welcome far more warmly,” he remarked as he stood beside the Elf-prince. “I warrant some things I said still ring harshly in your ears.”

Legolas hesitated then shrugged. “You spoke the truth,” he said with admirable honesty. “Though your timing left much to be desired,” he added wryly.

Elladan snorted in some amusement. “In light of my brother’s happiness and your part in its making, I suppose an apology is in order.” He regarded Legolas solemnly. “And I admit it was hardly fair to have chided you when you were about to embark on so perilous a journey. For that I must beg your pardon.”

Legolas nodded in acknowledgement. “But?” he pressed.

The Elf-warrior chuckled briefly. “I regret my timing as you put it,” he said. “But not what I said. Not any of it.” He looked at Legolas with some asperity. “There are kinder ways to turn away a suitor, _ernil daur_.”—forest prince. “ _Your manner_ left much to be desired.”

That elicited a faint if rueful smile from the archer. “Then I had best school myself if I do not wish to have an over-protective older brother snapping at my very heels,” he quipped.

Elladan now grinned at him and he grinned back. “I would lay that quarrel to rest, _gwador_ ”—sworn brother—he said, offering a conciliatory hand to the twin.

“ _Gwanur_ would be closer to the mark, don’t you think?” Elladan countered, taking the proffered hand. At Legolas’s sudden blush, he pointed out: “I do not believe Elrohir will be content to simply remain your lover. In which case, we will be kin and you will be as a brother to me.” 

The blush deepened. An unusual sight with the usually unflappable Wood-elf. But a smile of pleasure curved his mouth just the same. “If that should be his desire, I will not gainsay it,” he said.

Elladan now laughed with merriment. “You’ve learned your lesson well!” he commented. He looked to where Aragorn stood with Halbarad and turned to join them. But before he moved off, he said to Legolas: “We shall reach Minas Tirith soon after daybreak and that will be upon us before long. I suggest you make good use of the time ere we must go into battle.” At the archer’s questioning expression, he smiled kindly and added, “Elrohir is below deck. The last cabin to the right.”

With that, he strode away leaving Legolas to gape after him in surprise. The prince took a deep breath and fought the impulse to dash off. It would not do to attract undue attention. The men of Gondor were more learned as a rule than the Rohirrim but much lore had been lost with the passage of the centuries and estrangement from their kindred in the north. They could be as unaccepting of strange traditions as the horse-lords. And so he did his best to walk as nonchalantly as possible to the door leading below deck. 

But once he reached the lower level, he cast caution to the wind and raced down the narrow corridor toward the aforementioned cabin. Without pausing for breath, he opened the door and slipped in. 

Elrohir stood by the sole berth in the small chamber, clad in little more than his tight long breeches. He had unbound his hair and it now flowed in a satiny stream down his back. He turned his pewter gaze on the patently rapt archer.

“ _Melethen_ ,” he huskily murmured. My love. He reached out an inviting hand.

Legolas did not need a second beckoning but, hastily bolting the door behind him, hurried to the Elf-knight, tearing at the clasps of his tunic and ties of his shirt as he did. Flinging the garments uncaringly to one side, he all but knocked Elrohir down onto the bunk, peppering the warrior with hungry kisses even as they landed on the thin mattress. They swiftly wrestled off the remainder of their clothing in between the fervent unions of their mouths until nothing but skin separated them.

Legolas looked down at Elrohir in lustful appreciation. “I would have you, my Elf-knight,” he whispered pantingly.

Elrohir gazed up at him with shining eyes. “Then do,” he softly said.

The archer bent to stake his claim on the warrior. “Mine,” he growled just before their lips met. 

They had more privacy now than they’d known in the Hornburg but not much more time. And so their coupling was not carried out in leisurely fashion but with all the ferocity and haste of lovers on the possible brink of tragedy and loss. No one could predict what the war’s ending would wreak upon Middle-earth. Or foresee the final tally of its survivors and casualties. 

Starved for Elrohir despite their rabid tryst back in Rohan, it was all Legolas could do to keep from ravaging his Elf-knight. Holding on to his threadbare control, he kissed and bit and caressingly mauled virtually every inch of the warrior’s skin within his reach until Elrohir pleaded with him to finish his exquisite torment. The archer glanced up from the delicious exercise of running his tongue along the twin’s shaft and met Elrohir’s near delirious gaze. A roguish twinkle lit his blue eyes.

“Nay, _melethron_ ”—lover—he cooed. “This is much too luscious a prize to forego so soon.” And with that saucy rejoinder, clapped his lips around said prize and proceeded to draw upon it with lusty fervor.

Astonished by his golden prince’s audacity, Elrohir could not summon the wherewithal to protest but only strove to stifle his too vociferous expressions of approval and pleasure. They were in the innermost cabin of the ship, but sound could still carry through the wooden walls and ceilings. Biting his lip to quell himself, he could only bury his hands in the prince’s fair locks and do as Legolas desired. Which was to thrust up into the archer’s greedy mouth. One thing he could not do and that was to stave off the end for long. Not when Legolas suckled him with such heart-stopping enthusiasm. 

He spilled himself fulsomely, crying out sobbingly as Legolas practically drank him down. He lay quite still for a while, attempting to catch his breath after so voracious a milking, astounded by the intensity of his body’s response to the prince’s pleasuring. Rarely had he been reduced to such helpless rapture in all his long years. In his earliest forays soon after his majority, that had not been surprising given the unruly blossoming of his maturing body. But this had been most unexpected. Legolas had always been precocious in bed but it seemed the archer had grown even bolder since his months with the Fellowship. 

He opened his eyes when he felt Legolas partly lie atop him, the archer’s arms on either side of him, hands sliding over his to grasp them. A telltale hardness pressed against his groin. Their gazes met. Without a word, he spread himself for his prince. 

Legolas sank deep into him with a blissful groan. For several moments, they stayed thus, gazing at each other in mute and mutual adoration. Finally, the archer drew a shuddery breath of delight and dipped his head to capture the younger twin in a blistering kiss. A thrust of his hips and then another and he felt Elrohir arch with pleasure beneath him. Hearing the twin’s rapturous moan Legolas forgot all restraint and drove fiercely into his Elf-knight’s yielding heat. 

For the next several heartbeats, the world outside faded into nonexistence. All that mattered was the wondrous symphony of their loving—hands tightly clasped, mouths locked in ravenous desire, hips bucking passionately. As they neared their peaks, Legolas lowered his left hand still joined with Elrohir’s right to reach between them and clutch the Elf-knight’s shaft in a shared grip. Elrohir gasped against the archer’s lips, as pleased with his Greenleaf’s continued brashness as he was amazed. 

With a few firm tugs on the almost painfully turgid flesh, Legolas set off a sequence of sensations that inexorably led to their joint undoing. It began with Elrohir first, the pressure in his groin pulsing in indescribable waves of purest pleasure. With a ragged cry he let go and liquid heat dappled their taut bellies an instant later. Legolas moaned in near unbearable rapture when Elrohir’s powerful muscles repeatedly clenched around his delving length. And then he drove one last time into the Elf-knight, shuddering as he spent himself deep within his lover’s silken core, hoarsely calling out his name. 

In the languorous aftermath of their joining, they lay entwined, listening to each other’s slowly calming hearts, waiting for their breaths to deepen. After a spell, Legolas lifted his tousled head and tenderly kissed Elrohir’s jaw. 

The Elf-knight softly chuckled. “Are you trying to kill me?” he queried mildly, one raven eyebrow rising in question.

Legolas smirked and kissed him again. “Was that not to your liking?” he countered with a smugness that belied the intent of his inquiry. 

Elrohir regarded him affectionately and returned the kiss. “Very much in fact,” he smiled. “You are grown ever more brazen, _seron vell_.”—beloved. "But then you spent much time in Lórien and the Galadhrim are not known for conventional play.”

The archer sniffed at the idea. “I touched none in Lórien,” he said with mock disdain. “I take full credit or blame for my actions.” Seeing Elrohir’s surprise, his eyes softened and he brushed his lips tenderly against the warrior’s mouth. “Two couplings in three months are paltry recompense for four decades of abstinence, Elrohir,” he whispered. “Valar, but I missed this so. I missed you.”

Elrohir stared at him. “You abstained?” he murmured. “I had thought—”

“That ‘twas only you who could abide no other in your bed?” Legolas shook his head. He dropped a kiss on Elrohir’s shoulder then sighed regretfully. “But I know now that you have wholly been mine since my birth. Would that I had desisted from lying with others and remained yours alone.”

But Elrohir smiled and shook his head. “And how would you have known that ‘twas only I who contented you?” he gently pointed out. “I have never begrudged you your explorations, beloved. ‘Twas my share of experiences ere your birth that told me I wanted no other but you. ‘Twas only right for you to know what you truly desired as well.” 

His misgivings eased, Legolas beamed gratefully at him. It was then that they noted the growing light in the cabin. Dawn was rapidly encroaching however feeble its glow. The archer grimaced and held even more tightly to his lover. He did not welcome this day’s advent. At least not so soon for it heralded the end of their stolen hours together. 

He was about to speak when he tensed and turned his countenance toward the small window, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“Listen,” he said in a hushed voice. “Do your hear them?”

They were passing down a narrow portion of the river and the faint sound of gulls came to them from the near shore. Legolas shivered and burrowed into Elrohir’s arms. 

“Aye, I hear them,” Elrohir murmured. “Their calls stir your blood,” he added, recalling the strange light in his lover’s eyes when he first heard their raucous cries at Pelargir. Legolas had almost forgotten that he was in the midst of battle, so mesmerized had he been by the gulls’ wails. 

“Do they not stir yours?” Legolas asked pensively.

Elrohir hesitated before answering but Legolas did not mark it, so embroiled was he in the unbidden feelings that surged through him. The warrior finally shook his head. “Not as deeply,” he told the archer. “But then I have heard the song of the sea many a time. It no longer beckons to me as hardily as it did when I first heard it.”

Legolas mulled this over. “And will its call lessen for me as well?” he queried anxiously.

“I do not know,” Elrohir honestly replied. “I wager it must be stronger for those who have never heard it before.”

Legolas sighed then pressed his face against Elrohir’s throat. “Love me, my Elf-knight,” he whispered. “Your song is still the stronger and I would hear it again.”

“As you wish, _pen vell_.”—dear one. 

Legolas closed his eyes in elation as he was rolled over and pressed down into the bed and his mouth claimed in a molten kiss. Not even the sea-longing could compete with the Elf-knight’s hold on his soul. They wasted not a moment of their remaining time together but wrung every last drop of pleasure from their couplings. Soared repeatedly to dizzying heights of passion and rapture, girding their hearts and spirits for the bruising fight to come with their boundless love for each other. 

They were just riding out the last waves of their shared ecstasy when a discreet knock on the door drew their attention. “We are approaching the Harlond,” they heard Elladan announce. 

“We must go,” Elrohir said, striving to slow his breathing.

“Aye,” Legolas whispered. But he tightened his legs about his Elf-knight, keeping him within a while longer. He drew Elrohir down for one last fervent kiss. Their mouths met in scorching union, full of the promise of an eternity of tomorrows. 

They rose from the bunk and swiftly dressed. With steadfast hearts and unwavering spirits, they strode out together to meet whatever awaited them on the fields before the City of the Kings. 

_To be continued…_


	17. Covenant

A prince by birth and a warrior by inclination, Legolas did not as a rule frequent any place of healing save in instances of great necessity. So it was quite understandable why Elladan snickered when he observed the Wood-elf as the latter went about Minas Tirith’s Houses of Healing, helping where he could. But then again, Elrohir, too, was about in this noble place and that was enough reason for Legolas to be there.

The brethren were healers as well as soldier-princes and they had come to the Houses of Healing this last morning before the march to Mordor. Either by the skill of their hands or the comfort of their words and smiles, they set many on the path to healing soonest whether of body or spirit. Small wonder that their care was avidly sought.

Loath to part from Elrohir even for a few hours, Legolas had put aside his usual aversion to these hallowed halls and offered his services as well. With an Elf’s natural affinity for giving aid in whatever form, he performed the tasks assigned to him with minimal fuss and only the occasional grimace.

This was most evident when he brought Merry’s second breakfast to him for the hobbit was busy puffing up a storm with his cousin Pippin. The archer had never learned to tolerate the odor of pipe-weed even during the arduous months of the Quest. It was not likely he would suddenly learn to like it now. And so he exchanged greetings with his friends, ensured everything was well with them and hurried out of the room, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Elrohir came upon him in this state and, learning of the reason for his scowl, grinningly led him aside to a quiet alcove with a window overlooking the garden. Here they sat in silence for a while, their hands sliding across the stone seat to each other until they met and their fingers entwined. Elrohir raised Legolas’s hand and pressed kisses to its palm. The archer regarded him with gleaming eyes, shivering slightly from the sensation of the Elf-knight’s lips softly caressing his skin.

At length, Elrohir lifted his eyes to the prince and Legolas saw that he was engrossed in some deep thought.

“What is it?” he quietly asked.

Elrohir smiled slightly. “We march into the unknown tomorrow,” he murmured. “We may prevail or we may fail, either one of us or both. I do not fear death, but losing you I do fear and more than all the horrors of Mordor. Yet so long as our spirits still touched I would be comforted whether ‘tis I who must pass into the Halls of Awaiting or the one who remains behind or even should we both fall and leave this world together.” 

He marked Legolas’s rapt attention and his smile widened. It was clear the archer was already anticipating his proposal. “In light of this, would you consider—?”

“Binding myself to you!” Legolas quickly finished for him, his eyes glittering with deep joy. “Oh, aye, _pen vuil_.”—dear one. “When would you have the deed done? Tonight?”

Elrohir laughed softly at his prince’s eagerness and nodded. “I have spoken with Mithrandir and he suggested a hidden field at the foot of Mindolluin where no sentries roam.”

He reached into his tunic and drew out a small leather pouch. He emptied it into his hand. Legolas caught his breath.

Two gold bands lay in the Elf-knight’s palm. They were plain save for elvish inscriptions along the middle of each ring. The archer did not need to read them to know they were their linked names.

“I had them made as soon as I read your letter,” Elrohir softly explained.

Legolas felt his heart skip a beat in his elation. “Then Elladan was right,” he whispered. “You came ready to make me yours.” He touched his forehead to Elrohir’s and laid his hand atop the Elf-knight’s, enclosing the rings between their palms. “And I am more than ready to make you mine, _seron vell_.”—beloved.

Elrohir’s finger slid beneath his chin and lifted it. They shared a sweetly fervent kiss. Legolas nestled his golden head on his lover’s shoulder. “Let Sauron do his worst,” he softly declared. “He will not sunder us now; not in this life or the next.”

* * * *

“You Elves are a strange folk. I can understand bloodletting to ratify a treaty or pact. But to seal marriage vows?? That is barbaric beyond belief!”

The patent incredulity in Gimli’s voice made Legolas smirk. They were slowly making their way to the isolated clearing at the base of Mindolluin mentioned by Gandalf.

“A marriage vow is a pact of another sort,” he mildly pointed out. “And what is more barbaric? The simple cutting of our palms or writing out a contract in ink mixed with one’s blood as I’ve heard the Easterlings do?”

Gimli thought about that then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. So, you slash your palms and clasp hands?”

“Aye, and ‘tis then that we speak our joint vow.”

“And you are certain the Powers are listening?”

“We would not begin unless we felt their presence. I cannot explain to you how we know,” he said noting the Dwarf’s somewhat skeptical expression. “We just do.”

Gimli sighed. “I’ll take your word for it.” After a pause, he added gruffly, “And I’m honored you asked me to stand as your kin.”

Legolas smiled and was about to reply when of a sudden a star peered out from behind the sooty clouds. Before their startled eyes, it waxed bright and strong, its light shining down upon something ahead of them.

“Ho, what is happening?” Gimli wondered as they hastened toward the spot.

“‘Tis Eärendil,” Legolas said in awe and reverence. “The brethren’s grandsire. By why does he shine so brightly this night?”

They caught their breaths when they saw the twins in the small clearing at Mindolluin’s feet. They were both down on one knee before Gandalf, clothed in simple tunics and long breeches, Elladan in pale grey, Elrohir in white. Gandalf held his hands outstretched over them as if in benediction. And the light of the Mariner shone upon them with uncommon brightness before retreating once more behind the clouds.

Legolas hurried forward, Gimli hard on his heels. As they neared the three, Elladan and Elrohir rose and turned to meet them. About to speak, Legolas suddenly saw their eyes. An unearthly light flickered in their pewter depths for the briefest of moments. The truth struck him with the force of a storm’s buffet.

“The choice!” he gasped. “You have made it!”

The brethren smiled at him. Elrohir took his hand and clasped it hard. “Aye, beloved. My binding gift to you.”

“Sweet Eru, you did not tell me!” the archer sputtered.

“Tell you what?” Gimli demanded in bewilderment. “What choice?”

Gandalf smoothly interrupted. “Explanations will come later, my good Gimli,” he said. “We do not have the luxury of time.”

Gimli acceded and watched his friend take his place by the Elf-lord’s side. Quietly, solemnly, they named each and every one of the Valar, asking them to bear witness to their troth. And then they invoked the name of the One, of Eru almighty, that he might bless their union.

Suddenly, the very air grew still and not a sound was to be heard. Not even so much as the chirp of a cricket. Gimli felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand—he could not say how but he sensed other presences about. And he felt as if he were on the edge of a chasm from the acute feeling of anticipation that lanced through him.

He looked on in fascination as they individually uttered the first of the vows, slipping the gold bands on each other’s fingers as they did. Watched as Elladan silently handed a small dagger to Elrohir. Blew out his breath when the younger twin unhesitatingly drew it across his palm. At once the rich red of his blood welled up from the wound. The warrior offered the knife to the archer.

Legolas did likewise, the only sign of discomfort the slightest tightening of his mouth as the sharp steel bit into his flesh. They clasped their hands, bleeding palm pressed against bleeding palm. Gimli could not help a grimace when he glimpsed the mingled crimson that seeped from between their joined hands to trickle down their wrists.

Together now, they completed the oaths of binding that were as terrible as they were wondrous. Implacable, unbreakable, eternal.

No sooner had they finished speaking than thought and feeling flowed between them. Legolas caught his breath when he glimpsed memories of Elrohir’s life from before his birth and felt his regard for his Elf-knight deepen even further. His own relatively briefer existence was no less enchanting to behold as Elrohir caught up with the long years he had missed of the archer’s growth from a worshipful Elfling to a passionate warrior-prince.

A touch on their shoulders from Gandalf called them from their otherworldly trance, gentle words from the wizard drawing them back to the present.

“The night grows old,” he fondly said. “Do not waste a moment of it.”

There could be no nuptial feast; not in this time and place. But Elladan had thoughtfully procured a bottled of fine wine from the last stores to be had in the city. He brought it out now along with drinking cups. With a roguish flourish, he led the customary nuptial toast, a teasing aside to his brother to “make certain that Legolas can still ride tomorrow” earning him a clout from the crimson-faced archer. Legolas did not blush easily but, by Elbereth, Elladan’s fiendish tongue could and oft did discomfit him.

* * * *

Legolas gasped helplessly as he was relentlessly breached. He was on his elbows and knees, his hands gripping the bed linen so tightly, he thought it would rip apart. Soft raven silk spilled over his shoulders to mingle with the golden satin of his own tresses. He moaned when Elrohir reached around him and stroked him repeatedly. Held in the younger twin’s powerful arms, he could do naught but bear the brunt of his brutally sensual charge; do no more than endure the brisk caresses upon his shaft. 

Waves of rapture rolled over him and through him and all about him. Rapture that was no longer his alone but shared with the one to whom he was now bound. It overwhelmed him and his Elf-knight. In less time than he was used to, he spent himself, crying out with each spurt of his seed on the sheets. Elrohir swiftly followed him into the mindless bliss of culmination. They all but collapsed, Elrohir just barely retaining some presence of mind to roll them on their sides, slowly withdrawing from Legolas as they did.

They lay in the hush darkness, enjoying each other’s closeness. The only light was the faint glimmering of their bodies as their inner flames burned high and steadily, stoked by their avowed passion and love.

Gandalf had insisted that they take the room he and Pippin had stayed in since their advent in Minas Tirith. The hobbit would spend this last night in the barracks of the Company of the Guard of the Citadel with his human comrades-in-arms. Gandalf had accepted Gimli’s invitation to take Legolas’s place in their tent though whether the wizard would sleep at all was doubtful.

And so they had the whole night to themselves and all the privacy they could ask for. The house was deserted—its remaining occupants had left the City for safer environs after the dearly bought victory on the Pelennor.

His breathing near normal once more, Legolas lifted his tousled head and looked down on his darkling spouse. A deep welling of emotion rose within him as the reality of their binding came to him all over again. His lifelong bond with Elrohir had finally come to its fruition when they exchanged their vows. His Elf-knight was now both his treasured friend and forever mate.

He frowned then, recalling of a sudden the constraints laid upon the Peredhil. In all their years together, it was a subject they had not really spoken of. He vaguely remembered the one and only time Elrohir had told him of it. Since then, the Elf-knight had not broached the matter again. He wondered why. And he had to know as well the repercussions of a decision he had made just the day before.

“Elrohir? About what you and Elladan did tonight,“ he said tentatively. “I’ve always been aware of the choice you had to make. But I did not truly think about it. You did not speak of it with me.”

“There was no need,” Elrohir said. “I made it long before. Only the formal avowal needed to be declared.”

“You never doubted your path?” the archer asked anxiously. “Tell me the truth.”

“I will not deny I wavered when I thought you did not return my love,” Elrohir said honestly. He hastened to add when Legolas flinched, “But ‘twas only that once. Even did you love another, I knew you would still seek my friendship and counsel. I could not forsake you, Legolas.”

The archer digested this somberly. “Then why did you wait until now to seal your choice?”

“Because of Elladan. He had not yet chosen his road. I could not risk making mine only to have him choose the other. For so long as he believed I might follow him for no other reason than to keep from losing him, he would not choose as Elros did. But this morning, he told me he would follow me.” Elrohir smiled. “‘Twas he who suggested I made a gift of it to you.”

Legolas smiled back. “‘Twas a wondrous gift,” he murmured, bending to nuzzle the warrior’s throat. And then he stopped and glanced up, the smile fading from his lips.

“Now that you have chosen ere your father’s leave-taking of Middle-earth…” he murmured. “Should we prevail, will he remain in Middle-earth to help heal its hurts?” His voice was curiously hopeful. Almost urgently so.

Elrohir sighed. “I very much doubt it. He is weary beyond measure though he hides it well. Were my mother still by his side, mayhap he would. She was ever his greatest source of strength. He longs for her ceaselessly. I do not think he will delay their reunion a day longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“But you? Will you still need to sail with him?”

“I believe so.” Elrohir noted Legolas’s sudden pallor. “What is wrong?” he asked with a concerned frown.

The prince bit his lip. “During the Quest, Gimli and I developed a great devotion for Aragorn,” he explained haltingly. “We longed to do what we could to help him in his labors. And so yesterday, we approached him and pledged to help him rebuild Gondor in whatever way we can. We promised to bring some of our folk south to aid him in this endeavor.”

Elrohir gazed at him in some surprise. “But that is so generous of both of you,” he said warmly. “Elbereth knows Estel will need the help. Would that Elladan and I could stay on and aid him as well.”

“You do not yet know the whole of it,” Legolas said nervously. “We—we vowed to serve him for the entirety of his reign. I—I will not be able to leave Middle-earth until he passes away.”

Elrohir went absolutely still then. He stared at Legolas in silence, grey eyes wide with shock. And then to the archer’s consternation, he turned his face away. Legolas laid a hand on his arm, stroking it placatingly.

“I know I should have consulted you before making such a decision,” he murmured guiltily. “But I had forgotten about the conditions set around your choice. I assumed you would always be with me. I am sorry, _meleth_.”—love.

When Elrohir did not respond, he felt his anxiety wax to a gnawing fear. He knew that this could trigger another rift between them. And it was not the probable separation that troubled Elrohir, but rather the thought that Legolas was wholly capable of making such momentous decisions without discussing them with him first. He had already done so when he offered to join the Fellowship, thereby setting off their first major quarrel.

A more minor decision had been his pact with Gimli that he would visit the Glittering Caves if his Dwarf-friend would come to Fangorn with him in turn. That is, if their side had the victory and they both survived the battles to come. Elrohir had shaken his head in resignation upon finding out, but only mildly chided him for developing a belated case of wanderlust.

But now he had done it again. Legolas cringed inwardly. Elrohir could very well come to resent his impetuosity. He had seldom taken Legolas to task about this before, believing he had no right to rein in the archer’s enthusiasm. They were friends after all, not true lovers. But from the moment they had become lovers in the full sense of the word, it became both their rights to have part in whatever decisions they might make that would affect them as a couple.

Legolas had not considered this when he made these latter decisions. Now he lay by Elrohir’s side, trying to gauge the depth of his mate’s displeasure with him. After a long while, he laid his head on the warrior’s shoulder, closing his eyes against the sting of frightened tears.

“You are angry,” he whispered dolefully. “I cannot blame you.”

He sensed Elrohir’s eyes upon him, but he did not dare look up lest he see the twin’s certain ire. But Elrohir cupped his face and compelled him to return his gaze.

“I am not angry,” the warrior quietly said. “But I am disappointed that you did not allow me any say in this.”

Legolas swallowed hard. Of a sudden, he felt like an Elfling again being scolded for some wrongdoing. Well, he had behaved like one, he thought, his throat tight with regret.

Elrohir sighed. “I had long foreseen that we would indeed be parted longer than our wont.” He ignored Legolas’s surprised gasp and remarked with a touch of acid in his tone, “But I never imagined this would be the cause.”

Legolas felt his guilt assail him further. “I will go to Aragorn and—and withdraw my pledge,” he choked out.

Elrohir shook his head. “And be foresworn? You would not know peace even did you come with me to Valinor. It would always trouble you that you did not keep your word. Particularly one that Estel most likely welcomed and will eagerly depend on when he comes into his own. Nay, my Greenleaf, you will fulfill your promise to him as is your duty. In all honor, you cannot turn your back on your oath.”

Legolas flinched visibly. “It will not happen again,” he said in a small voice. “Please forgive me.”

Elrohir looked at him searchingly. And knew he could not remain at odds with his mate. The very sight of the proud archer reduced to near tears was enough to best him. He drew Legolas close and kissed his fluttering eyelids, tasting the salt of the tears that lurked beneath the thick lashes. The tightly woven embrace around him and the trembling of the long lean body in his arms told him it would indeed not happen again.

“Speak no more of this tonight,” he firmly said, lips barely touching the archer’s. “Dawn will be upon us before too long and I would have us celebrate our binding to the fullest.”

Though he had worshipped his mate’s body just minutes earlier, he did so again, leaving no part of him untasted or untouched. By the time he crept up to straddle the archer, Legolas was no longer coherent in his pleadings. But instead of taking him at once, he grasped the prince’s hands and pinned them above his head. With one hand he held down the slender wrists. With the other, he clutched Legolas’s rigid shaft and stroked it swiftly and hardily. Almost brusquely, the prince thought wildly as jolting pleasure wracked his body.

Legolas tried to free his hands but Elrohir’s grip on his wrists was adamantine, his Peredhel strength very much in evidence. He could do naught but writhe and rear frenziedly while each stroke brought him closer and closer to explosive release. He spent himself with a guttural cry, the force of his climax almost winding him. But before he could recover his breath, Elrohir forced his legs apart and wedged himself between them.

The archer gasped as his legs where raised high onto the warrior’s shoulders. Then Elrohir pressed low, trapping him in this particularly vulnerable position. It was one they seldom used for Elrohir knew that Legolas did not relish being rendered so helpless. But tonight, he took his golden prince thusly, pushing deeply and roughly into him while he pillaged his mouth and fondled his length anew.

The archer felt a thrill of alarm mingle with his passion and excitement. Despite his claim to the contrary, was it possible that Elrohir harbored some anger and now vented it through their coupling? 

He tried to speak but was cut off with scalding kisses. Was virtually rendered breathless by the relentless pounding thrusts into his body. Could barely think as he was savagely unraveled, the manner of it as close to ravishment as was possible between them. Such handling was more than Legolas could bear. Coupled with the flow of sensation between them, it was overwhelming and he surrendered, sobbing harshly as he did.

Liquid warmth filled him once more and through the cacophony of his thoughts, he heard Elrohir hoarsely whispering to him over and again: “I love you. Ah, Valar, but I love you.”

He opened his eyes and stared at his mate. Relief swept away his doubts when he saw only profound affection in the depths of the silvery pools. He swallowed hard, tears of gratitude moistening his lashes. Elrohir carefully disengaged from him and gently lowered his legs from his shoulders. He held Legolas close wondering at the prince’s expression.

“What is it?” he softly inquired. “Did I hurt you?”

“Nay!” Legolas gasped. “But you have not used me so forcibly in all our years together. I confess I thought—I thought you still felt some anger toward me.”

Elrohir stared at him then chuckled. “I told you I would ride you hard and deep and often when the chance presented itself, didn’t I?” he said rakishly. At his beloved archer’s elated reaction, he added drawlingly, “Brace yourself, _lass dithen_ ”—little leaf. “I am far from done with you.”

And he smothered Legolas’s indignant protest against the old appellation with a kiss that drove all thought from the archer’s mind.

_To be continued…_


	18. Gambit

The hordes of Mordor broke upon the Men of the West like a black tidal wave. In moments, it appeared that none of the valorous foes of the Dark Lord would live to tell the tale of this last horrific battle. In this hour, Sauron was swollen with malicious mirth as he watched his forces all but engulf the army that had dared brave his wrath.

As he parried, ducked and stabbed, Legolas thought that, compared to this, the Battle of the Hornburg was naught but a skirmish, the desperate fight on the fields of the Pelennor little more than a minor altercation. This was brutal and soul rending. This was ultimately hopeless.

It was all a gamble. The greatest, most improbable gamble in all history. And one where the victor would most likely find only wrack and ruin in his wake. For they were the price to be paid in this critical venture. Their certain deaths the means by which to buy yet another hour, another minute, another precious moment for two weary Hobbits trudging across the smoking wasteland that was Mordor.

He gutted an orc, decapitated another and dealt a third a crippling kick in the groin. He managed a glance over his shoulder. There stood Elrohir, holding his ground against a half dozen goblins, his sword flashing in the weak sunlight, pewter eyes so fell and fierce that they could cow his foes almost as much as the wicked blade he wielded.

A little further on, Elladan plowed into a knot of orcs as they sought to bring Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth down. Legolas had a few seconds to wonder about his law-brother’s sudden protectiveness of the Belfalas lord before seeing once more to the business of surviving this hellish onslaught.

Through the corner of his eye he saw Aragorn standing fast beneath his standard, his face grim with fatalistic determination. Legolas could guess what fair thoughts passed through the Ranger’s mind, buttressing his spirit. On the low hill behind him stood Gandalf, a shining, unblemished figure in this land of darkness. The shadow retreated before him. Men took heart when faltering just by laying their eyes upon the White Rider.

A bloodcurdling shriek from above nearly sent the soldiers about him to their knees in terror. The Nazgûl swooped down from up on high, the wings of their hideous steeds blotting out what light there was, adding to the torment of the men below, sowing fear and despair wherever they hovered. Even with the loss of their king they were still a potent source of dread.

He saw Éomer’s warhorse go down, its belly ripped open by a Haradin sword. The beast’s entrails spilled out even as the young king leaped free of his dying steed. His assailant made the fatal mistake of slipping on the horse’s gory bowels. Éomer lopped off his head with one swing. A Rider came to his side and hurriedly dismounted.

“Up, my lord! Up!” Legolas heard the warrior shout to his king before plunging once more into the fray. Éomer vaulted into the saddle and was instantly back in the thick of the fighting.

Fending off yet another strike at his fair head, Legolas glanced once more at his mate. He scowled with consternation when he saw how far Elrohir had moved from his former position. The reason soon became apparent.

The Elf-knight stood astride the form of Elphir, Imrahil’s eldest son and heir. The man lay crumpled on the riven ground, a deep dent in his helm evidence of a ferocious buffet to his head. Only Elrohir warded off the killing blows that would have hurtled Dol Amroth’s crown prince into permanent oblivion.

Legolas started to move toward him intending to lend him aid. But he suddenly heard Elrohir’s warning cry in his mind.

_To Estel, Legolas! To Estel!_

He swung around and gasped in dismay. The Ranger was beset by a huge Troll armed with a club. Aragorn was quick and agile and evaded the brute’s vicious assault for the most part. But the press of bodies around him was too close and he could not remain beyond the beast’s reach for long.

Legolas plunged toward the beleaguered man. If Aragorn fell, his army would lose all heart and scatter before Sauron’s forces. Even did the Ring-bearer fulfill his Quest, the Men of Gondor would be doomed to stagnation and mayhap even oblivion without their king to lead them. So much would be in vain even did they accomplish the near impossible and emerge victorious over the Dark Lord.

But try as he might, he could not break through the mass of mingled friends and foes. Before his horrified eyes, Aragorn stumbled before the Troll. And all the while the Nazgûl roamed the skies above.

“The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!” (1)

Pippin took up Gandalf’s cry. Legolas barely heard the Hobbit’s high voice above the din.

He looked up in time to descry the dark plumage of one of the most majestic creatures of the air he had ever seen. Swift Gwaihir beat off one of the Wraiths, forcing it to forsake its harassment of the Rohirrim. With his brother Landroval and their many vassals, the mighty eagle gained some measure of respite for the embattled men from the unrelenting terror of the skies.

Legolas turned his efforts back to aiding Aragorn. And still he was hindered. He could only watch helplessly as the Troll repeatedly brought its club down upon the Ranger. Aragorn dodged it as well as he could but he was at a disadvantage, trapped as he was beneath the creature’s hulking form. Sooner or late, one of those blows would find its mark and that would be the end of the line of the Kings.

Suddenly, the Nazgûl abandoned the field, speeding almost frantically toward Orodruin in the distance. The Troll above Aragorn halted in its attack and looked around in confusion. All about the orcs faltered and fell back in bewilderment. Legolas sensed it then. The lifting of the shadow. The redirection of the malevolent will that had guided the Black Army thus far.

What was happening?

The Troll stumbled away in fear. The orcs began to scatter. Heartened the Captains of the West rallied their battered forces and pressed forward. Legolas hastened to help Aragorn to his feet.

“Stand, Men of the West!” Gandalf’s clear voice rang out. “Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.” (2)

Legolas and Aragorn had but a moment to stare in wonder at the wizard before the very earth trembled beneath their feet. They swung around and saw the Morannon crumble, the ramparts fall, the Towers of the Teeth collapse like piles of children’s playing blocks. Dense clouds of smoke issued from far beyond and a deafening rumble drowned out all other sounds.

He started when Gandalf suddenly came to stand between him and Aragorn. “The realm of Sauron is ended,” he said, his eyes shining. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.” (3)

All around them, the Dark Lord’s creatures were fleeing. Or falling before the swords and spears of the valiant warriors of the West. But the Men of the South did not give way at once. They were a proud and fierce people and would not readily surrender. Aragorn did not linger long but turned his attention to this still present threat.

Gandalf looked away to steadily belching Orodruin. “I must find Frodo and Sam,” he told Legolas. “Gwaihir will help me.”

He strode away swiftly. Legolas watched him as he spoke to the great eagle. A few moments later, Gwaihir leaped up into the smoky skies, Gandalf upon his back. With them went Landroval and one of their vassals, fleet Meneldor. They disappeared into the darkened horizon. Legolas whispered a silent entreaty that they would locate the indomitable Hobbits in time.

With a sigh, he looked back to where he had last seen Elrohir. He frowned when he could see no sign of his mate then almost jumped when a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He turned and met Elladan’s anxious eyes.

“I cannot find Elrohir,” the older twin tightly said.

Legolas stared at him, his fear rising to choke him. “Last I saw him, he was defending Elphir,” he replied, moving in that direction.

Elladan shook his head. “Nay, Imrahil found his son and Elrohir was not with him.” He could not keep his own fear from his voice.

Legolas began to run, eyes darting about, looking for his darkling spouse. He reached to the very center of his being, seeking the assurance of the bond that held them together. Surely he would know if Elrohir had… He shook the thought away vehemently. Nay! He could not accept such a thing. Not when they had come through the impossible into the hope of a new era.

Tears began to gather in his eyes as he and Elladan searched the prone figures amidst the slag heaps. He shuddered at the sight of headless corpses and bodiless heads, disemboweled men and beasts, shattered forms and mutilated faces. Valar! They had the victory but at what price!

He prayed as he had never prayed before. Mighty Eru spare him the horror and grief of finding his Elf-knight amongst the dead. He did not think he could live without Elrohir. He had known the twin’s presence since infancy. How could he face eternity shorn of his love, of his loving?

As his search wore on, he no longer paid attention to the happenings around him. Took no notice of the surrender of the Haradin to Aragorn. Or the winding down of the slaughter of whatever remained of Sauron’s minions. Tears slid down his pale cheeks as he began to think his hope in vain.

Binding-mates always knew each other’s presence. Even death did not sever that connection. The Halls of Awaiting harbored the souls of the dead, but did not hinder the flow of feeling the marriage bond engendered. He did not know if he would actually sense the change in that connection should Elrohir be taken from him—he’d never thought to inquire about the matter before. Was it possible that the Elf-knight had already passed beyond his grasp into the timeless halls?

He looked at Elladan imploringly but the older twin evaded his gaze, guessing his question. Legolas knew the answer then. He still felt their bond but it was indeed possible that Elrohir was no longer with them. A sob escaped him as he contemplated centuries, even millennia of life without his Elf-knight’s inimitable regard to warm and succor him.

“Elladan,” he hoarsely whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to his law-brother. Elladan was at his side in an instant, throwing a supporting arm around his shoulders.

“Do not lose hope, _gwanur_ ”—brother—he said though his own voice quavered with suppressed grief. “We will find him.”

They bent their minds once more to their task. More sobs began to shake the archer’s slender frame as he turned over already cold bodies and pushed back blood-matted hair from dead faces. His cheeks were now wet with unrestrained tears.

It was then, when he was nigh on the edge of despair, that he heard Imrahil hailing Elladan.

“He is here!” the Dol Amroth prince shouted. “We have found him!”

He and Elladan raced toward the prince where he and a few men were heaving the carcasses of almost a dozen orcs off something. He saw an outflung hand beneath the pile still grasping a sword. Sweet Eru! Elrohir’s sword.

They arrived just as Imrahil hauled off the last goblin to reveal the Elf-knight’s still form. Both of them dropped to their knees. Elladan at once reached for his brother’s wrist and sought the beating of his pulse.

“Elbereth be praised,” Elladan whispered. “He is alive!”

Barely stopping himself from embracing his mate, Legolas helped Elladan strip his twin of his mail. He then lifted Elrohir’s head onto his lap whilst Elladan hurriedly checked his brother’s body for injuries. He was covered in blood but what was his and what was his foes’ could not be discerned. Elladan sighed in relief and looked up at the archer.

“There is no internal bleeding,” he said as he loosened Elrohir’s collar. “But his shoulder is dislocated, there is a terrible bruise on his side and I do not like the look of that gash on his forehead. Still, I daresay it is only a flesh wound.”

“But why is he unconscious?” Legolas asked anxiously, hands caressing the warrior’s hair, bending to press tender kisses to Elrohir’s cheeks.

“He was under that noisome pile for a long while,” Elladan said. “His injuries prevented him from freeing himself. I wager he passed out from lack of air.”

Imrahil turned back to them after sending his men away. He had noted Legolas’s loving ministrations and thought to shield the Elven prince from the curious and perhaps disapproving stares of his soldiers.

He now informed them: “My men say he was surrounded by orcs. The last they recall is the whole lot leaping upon him. Doubtless they hoped to bring him down through the sheer weight of their combined bulks.” He looked at the goblin carcasses, wonder on his handsome face. “And still he killed them all,” he remarked admiringly. “You Elves are as formidable as you are fair. I am not ashamed to admit that I am relieved we did not have to face foes such as you in this battle.”

After the Elves smiled in acknowledgement of his praise, Imrahil bit his lip then gestured with his head to where his son lay a few yards away, tended by his men. “I am most grateful to your brother,” he said to Elladan. “He defended Elphir even though he scarcely knew him.

Elladan managed a grin. “My brother did it for your sake, my prince,” he lightly replied. “And therefore mine.”

His and Imrahil’s gazes met. To Legolas’s puzzlement, the prince suddenly flushed and averted his eyes. Elladan’s grin widened. When he turned his attention back to Elrohir, Legolas saw that his eyes were aglitter with a hint of mischief.

Elrohir suddenly drew in a wheezing breath then moaned, his head moving feebly on Legolas’s lap.

“Elladan, he is coming awake,” the archer said elatedly.

“Aye,” the older twin agreed. “But hold him fast. Best I set that shoulder before he is fully conscious. It will be quite painful.”

Legolas obeyed and tightened his hold on his mate. He watched with a grimace while Elladan manipulated Elrohir’s left arm. There was a faint pop as the joint suddenly slid back into its socket. It was accompanied by a sudden cry from Elrohir. The younger twin’s eyes snapped open, glazed with pain.

It took him several moments to comprehend what was happening and Elladan took advantage of his disoriented state to quickly secure his left arm to his body to keep his shoulder still. He tore his cloak into long thick strips and wound them around before his brother finally realized where he was.

He looked up into Legolas’s smiling face, then at his brother and on to Imrahil who stood just behind Elladan. He let out a sigh. “Elbereth, I thought that was the end of me,” he whispered. “I could not push them off to breathe.”

“We know, _gwanneth_ ”—younger twin—Elladan said as he tended to the cut on his brother’s forehead. “Your shoulder was injured and you have a nasty bruise in your side.”

“Ah, so that is why you have trussed me up like a side of meat ready for the pot,” Elrohir groaned. He looked up at Legolas, then frowned. He raised his free hand and brushed the moisture from his mate’s cheek with his fingers. “Legolas, why do you weep?” he murmured.

The archer caught him to himself. “I thought I had lost you!” he gasped. “Ah, Elrohir, you scared me! I have never known such fear before!”

He forgot all propriety. Forgot they were on a war-torn field surrounded by men. He sealed his lips to Elrohir’s and kissed him hungrily, plunging his tongue into the warm confines of the warrior’s mouth to taste the sweetness within that he had thought lost to him. True to his Peredhil blood, Elrohir swiftly responded in kind, heedless of his injuries and exhaustion.

Elladan grabbed a startled Imrahil by the hem of his tunic and yanked him into place before the couple. And when Gimli came to them bearing a begrimed and groggy Pippin, he, too, was drafted into forming a screen around the lovers. Which immediately put him in a stew for he did not wish to bear witness to maudlin displays especially when expressed in such a flagrantly scorching manner. And with a less than feather light Hobbit resting in his arms to boot!

(1)(2)(3) Passages taken from LotR: _The Return of the King_ , Book VI, Chapter IV: The Field of Cormallen.

_To be continued…_


	19. Recovery

Field of Cormallen, Ithilien, _Gwirith_  
It was with much appreciation and some amusement that Elrohir watched Legolas give himself a thorough wash at one side of the tent. It was just an hour past the evening meal and the younger twin lay comfortably on a soft pallet, modestly covered by a blanket, after having been tended to and bathed by the archer. For though his shoulder was on the mend, it still gave him some grief. Elladan had thus ensured that he did not move it or his arm overmuch.

Since discovering his darkling mate unconscious amidst the dead that littered the barren field before the Black Gate, Legolas had doted upon Elrohir most effusively. So vigilant was he in his care of the injured Elf-knight that he refused to leave his side for more than the few minutes it took to fetch his meals or the water for his ablutions. Hence the archer would not even venture down to the river’s edge to bathe with the other soldiers. That would keep him from Elrohir’s side far longer than he liked.

Elrohir did not begrudge him his protectiveness. What lover could withstand the emotion especially in the wake of near disaster? Besides, it afforded him such charming sights as the one that played out before him now.

The archer stood clad in naught but his long breeches. With meticulous care, he laved his face, arms and torso, scarcely a drop of water falling to the grassy ground. Even his hair did not escape attention—Elrohir smiled as the shining sheath was deftly rinsed and wrung. He could almost smell the sweet scent that perpetually clung to Legolas’s golden tresses.

Done with his upper body, the Wood-elf toweled himself dry and drew on a loose shirt. Only then did he shed his breeches and begin the bathing process anew. The Elf-knight’s eyes glittered with more than mere appreciation as certain body parts were attended to. In some ways, this partial stripping could be as titillating as the full baring of the archer’s charms, he mused.

Legolas was no prude to bathe in this manner. But there were and always would be Men who were. Not all humans were comfortable with the notion of nakedness amongst their fellows, more so with the less battle-hardened youngsters who hailed from the more rustic and all too often conservative countryside.

And more of them had poured in, summoned along with supplies to the camp the victorious army of the West had set up on the Ithilien side of Anduin on the newly named Field of Cormallen. Even the mere mention of the subject of coupling was enough to reduce some of these callow youths to the fiercest of blushes.

It should not have been a problem within the confines of the tent the brethren ostensibly shared but which more often than not housed Legolas rather than Elladan. But folk were always coming and going and oft without asking for so much as a by your leave.

Privacy was near non-existent in the camp. War, even its aftermath, seemed to have knocked most people’s manners out of them. As such, Legolas was taking no chances that someone might walk in on him stark naked and then go off spouting nonsense about the shamelessness of Elves. 

Elladan had already lent some credence to that ridiculous assumption the very first morning after the camp’s establishment. A youngling—a messenger from Éomer—had stumbled upon the Elf-warrior while he was sorting out his and Elrohir’s belongings, separating fresh raiment from soiled ones.

With nary a stitch on. With typical aplomb, Elladan had ignored the lad’s shocked gape and calmly continued with his task while Elrohir encouraged the boy to stutter his message. The young Rider had then fled the tent, crimson to his very ears, and the younger twin had dissolved into bone-shaking laughter, which had done his shoulder no good at all.

Legolas could not be as cavalier as Elladan in this. The Wood-elven part of him reacted to such discomfort in ways he could not quite explain. Their embarrassment discomfited him in turn, rousing a modicum of unexpected modesty that made him uneasy about exposing himself to others, even those who were not at all bothered by dishabille amongst other men. And so he resorted to this cautious method of bathing. Better to be safe than ogled gracelessly, which was an almost expected hazard at present.

Sure enough, he had just donned fresh breeches when Merry and Pippin burst in without warning with a message from Aragorn. The Ranger was sending news of their victory north. Did the Elves have any dispatches they wished to include?

A moment after they left, Gandalf entered with Elladan close upon his heels. The wizard inquired after the state of Elrohir’s shoulder then remarked to him and Elladan that Frodo and Sam’s healing sleep were doing wonders for them both and, in their capacity as healers, when did they think the Hobbits would awaken.

Hardly had Gandalf departed when Imrahil quietly sought permission to enter the tent. Elrohir chuckled and remarked to Elladan: “Now there’s a man of good manners for you.”

After the prince exchanged greetings with them all, Elladan asked, “How does Elphir fare?”

Imrahil smiled and replied. “He is healing swiftly, thank Eru. The healers say he will experience lightheadedness once in a while for some days yet—the blow to his head was quite severe.” He looked at Elrohir, gratefulness in the depths of his grey-tinged aquamarine eyes. “That he is alive at all is your doing,” he told the Elf-knight. “You have my deepest gratitude.”

Elrohir’s eyes twinkled. “Well, someone had to see to your son’s well being considering that Elladan was so engrossed in yours,” he quipped. He grinned when faint color stained the prince’s sculpted cheeks.

Involuntarily, Imrahil glanced at the older twin. Whatever he saw in the other’s pewter eyes only served to deepen the blush that so charmingly suffused his comely face. Hastily repeating his thanks, he quickly took his leave. 

The brethren exchanged a look. Elladan grinned and called to Imrahil to wait for him. He joined the obviously flustered prince as the other slipped out of the tent. Elrohir subsided into silent laughter.

Legolas approached him curiously. “What was that all about?” he asked. “What is amiss between Elladan and Imrahil?”

Elrohir snickered. “Nothing is amiss, _seron vell_ ”—beloved—he replied. “But I wager Imrahil almost wishes that were so if only to spare him from blushing like a virgin lad.”

Legolas stared at his mate. “You don’t mean—?” At Elrohir’s affirming grin, he shook his head in protest though a smirk tugged at his own lips. “Nay, that is not possible. Imrahil is a man who also happens to be wed and quite besotted with his lady. That is the talk amongst his soldiers.”

Elrohir shrugged. “Imrahil bears elven blood—it is no surprise that he should know some of our desires as well. Yet I did not say Elladan would take things quite so far. Though you have to admit that flirtation has its moments. And the way Imrahil reacts to him is priceless.” His face turned thoughtful. “Still, I would not put it past my brother to have seen something of what is to come and decide to await it.”

Legolas sank down on one side of the pallet and looked down at the recumbent warrior. “Meaning you have foreseen something yourself,” he commented.

“Mmm, let us simply say that not only does Imrahil bear the blood, but also very strongly at that,” Elrohir said. “You felt it yourself when you first spoke with him.”

The archer nodded. “Where it not for the fact that I knew him to be one of the lords of Gondor I might have mistaken him for a Peredhel at the very least.”

“Exactly.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?”

“His lady wife may be of the Dúnedain, but she is wholly human.”

Legolas stared at Elrohir. “He will outlive her,” he blurted out.

Elrohir pursed his lips. “It would seem so,” he answered. “And I imagine Imrahil will be very lonely then. He said as much to Elladan before we marched to Mordor. He mentioned not wanting to be left alone while all whom he loved went before him.”

Legolas’s stare intensified. “You are implying that Elladan may step in at that point,” he said. “But then—that would still be years in the future and you have made it quite clear that your father’s departure for Aman is fairly close at hand. What of the constraint laid upon you?”

Elrohir sighed. “Neither Elladan nor I truly know what is in store for us now that we have chosen our fate. We cannot say with any precision what close at hand might mean to Father or that the constraints of our choice cannot be altered to some extent. But we both believe that we have more leeway than Arwen does. You have to understand—though the choice was left to us it has ever been the Valar’s hope that we would join ourselves to the Eldar. It is likely they would—reward us to some extent now that we have done as they desire. That is, if it is within their power to grant.”

Legolas gazed at him them leaned down and kissed him. Drawing back slightly, he gazed longingly at Elrohir. “I hope so,” he whispered.

Elrohir suddenly pulled him back into another kiss. A groin-igniting one. He broke away, gasping at the wild sensations that raced through his body.

“Do not tease me so,” he rasped. “‘Tis bad enough that we must remain chaste without adding to my frustration!”

“And who says we must remain chaste?”

Legolas gaped at him. “Elrohir, folk oft enter this confounded tent without warning,” he reminded the warrior. “Would you have someone come upon us rutting? Why, it would be all over the camp that we are not only shameless but bizarre beyond redemption.”

“No one will come in, Legolas,” Elrohir told him. “Do you think Elladan left only to be with Imrahil? They stand outside the tent this very moment, guarding our privacy. Now, come here!”

Legolas protested as he was pulled closer. “We cannot do this. It will only slow your recovery!”

“And since when have you known more about the healing arts than I?” Elrohir snorted. “Strip, _melethron_.”—lover.

“But—but you cannot move overmuch—”

“And I will not. You will do the riding this eve.”

“Are you certain?” Legolas asked uncertainly though he began to strip swiftly, flinging his clothes about helter-skelter as he removed them. Elrohir laughed softly at his eagerness.

“More than certain, my prince,” he murmured and drew Legolas flush against him for scorching, breath-stealing kisses and caresses, proving that even with only one good arm, he could still inflame his golden spouse beyond bearing.

In sweet retaliation, Legolas yanked the blanket off him and proceeded to do what he’d been aching to do for several days now. Which was to remind Elrohir just to whom he belonged. Not that the Elf-knight had ever forgotten. Caught between laughter and moans, he bore Legolas’s exquisite torture for as long as he could before evincing his startling strength by one-handedly pulling the archer up to lie beside him once more that he might kiss and stroke him to distraction.

Before long, he had Legolas good and ready and bade him straddle his groin. The archer forgot all caution and decorum and simply sank down to impale himself upon Elrohir’s waiting shaft. The swift and sudden joining did not give either of them the time or thought to smother the sounds that escaped their lips.

Just outside, Imrahil paused in what he was saying to Elladan and glanced at the tent. He had heard the earlier sounds coming from within but since they had been muffled, he had managed to ignore them for the most part. Or at least not let them ruffle him too much. But this…! He felt Elladan’s amused gaze on him and blushed ever more deeply.

“They always do have the most lively conversations,” the Elf-warrior facetiously remarked.

Imrahil groaned inwardly and promised himself never to allow Elladan to involve him in such discomfiting situations again. He looked warily at the older twin and could not help noticing the mischievous gleam in his eyes. He groaned silently again.

It would be easier to single-handedly bring down a herd of Mûmakil than resist Elladan’s potent blandishments.

* * * *

Minas Tirith, _Lothron_  
The triumphant return to the City of the Kings and the festivities surrounding Aragorn’s coronation only temporarily assuaged Legolas’s fretting. He and Elrohir were to part once again when the brethren left with the Rohirrim for the Riddermark. They were setting forth to fetch their foster brother’s greatest reward. Their beloved Evenstar.

It would not be a long separation the archer knew. But with the knowledge of future partings crowding his thoughts—his sojourn with Gimli in Fangorn, the time he would need to settle his people in Ithilien, and, worst of all, the years after Elrohir departed for the Blessed Realm—well, just thinking about it was enough to plunge the Wood-elf into the blackest of moods.

The only thing that cheered him was the possibility broached by the twins that they may not need to depart for Aman with Elrond. All the more reason to meet with their father soonest. If anyone could make that plea on their behalf to the Valar and most likely have it granted, it was the most senior Peredhel in Middle-earth, the single surviving son of the Mariner himself.

And so Legolas did his best to put on a cheerful face and make the most of the remaining days before the twins left Minas Tirith to ride north. That this meant spending many portions of each day in Elrohir’s arms came as no surprise to those who knew them best. Truth be told, there was not as much time to be had for passionate unions as the lovers would have liked. 

In the heady days following the coronation, there was much work to be done and always a need for more and more hands to see to it. It was natural that Elessar would assign the most delicate or potentially problematic tasks to those he trusted most. The brethren were thus oft closeted with him in counsel or off to attend to one matter of import or another. As such, Legolas and Elrohir snatched what moments they could and coupled fervently whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.

Expressions of affection from loved ones come in all guises. In their case, this became evident in the collusion amongst Elladan, Aragorn, Gimli and Gandalf to help the lovers come together as oft as possible even for the briefest of periods. Legolas would always be grateful to the Ranger become King who stood guard one afternoon outside his own bedchamber to shoo away all and sundry lest they overhear from within what his Elf-brother and erstwhile Quest comrade had forgotten to stifle.

When the day of parting finally arrived, however, Legolas found he was no better prepared to cope with it than he’d been when he first learned of it. It made him wonder how he would endure any and all subsequent separations, all of them sure to be lengthier than this one.

“You will cope, _lass vuil_ ”—dear leaf—Elrohir murmured to him as they walked together to the stables outside the walls of the Citadel. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Your part in the Quest proved that to everyone.”

Legolas sighed as they entered the stables. “I know I will,” he conceded. “But coping is not the same as enjoying. I dearly regret making that bargain with Gimli. Mayhap I should call it off.”

“And regret the chance for the rest of your life?” Elrohir gently scoffed. “Do not go down that road, Legolas. You will visit Fangorn as you desired and you will enjoy it with all your Wood-elven heart. Memories will be all we shall have once we leave these shores. Store up as much as you can while you still call Middle-earth home.”

Legolas bit his lip then nodded. “I cannot deny that a part of me is—elated at having seen such wonders as I had never dreamed of. And after our stay in Ithilien… Its woods call to me, Elrohir. Even more than Mirkwood ever did. I feel as if something has awakened in me that lay asleep for so long.”

Elrohir smiled and lifted a hand to caress his cheek. They were quite alone in the building—there would be no one to witness any unseemly exchange between them and get the shock of his or her life.

“This is your chance to indulge what was so long withheld from you,” the Elf-knight said. “I have always thought you did not belong in the deeps of Mirkwood. Not even when it was unmarred by the Dark Lord’s touch did it seem a fitting place for one of your incandescence. I watched you in Ithilien and I agree with you wholeheartedly. You belong there.”

“For now,” Legolas said. “But the sea also calls to me and I know I will not linger long once my oath to Aragorn is fulfilled.” He looked wistfully at Elrohir. “Do you think there are woods of as much beauty in Aman?”

The twin drew him close, their foreheads touching. “I wager far more than what Middle-earth has to offer,” he murmured. “Do not fear, my Legolas. I will not make a home for us that you would not flourish in and if that means scouring Valinor for that perfect patch of woods in which to build our abode I will gladly do it.”

“Elbereth,” Legolas suddenly choked. “I do not want to think of that parting! It will be horribly lonely without you, _seron vell_.” He turned his face into Elrohir’s neck and tightened his hold on the Elf-knight. “Would that you did not have to leave. Would that we could always be together.”

Elrohir knew that the prince was referring as much to all their future separations as he was to the imminent parting. And that Legolas still harbored guilt at having, however unwittingly, contributed to them. He held his mate snugly, letting love and comfort wash over him.

Glancing up, he espied Elladan and Imrahil at the stable doors. His twin winked at him while Imrahil rolled his eyes and hastily stepped away from the doors. Elrohir smirked.

“Come, _ernilen_ ”—my prince—he whispered. “I believe the loft is as good a place to say goodbye as any.”

Legolas lifted his head and stared at him in bemusement. “The loft?”

But he had no time to say more when Elrohir rakishly hauled him up the ladder to the hay-filled space above them. For the next several minutes or so, the most unlikely sounds resounded through the stables.

It was most fortunate horses could not tell tales, Elladan was heard to laughingly comment to a mildly chagrined Prince of Dol Amroth.

*************************  
Glossary:  
Gwirith – Sindarin for April  
Lothron – Sindarin for May

_To be continued…_


	20. Bond

Minas Tirith, Midsummer’s Eve T.A. 3019  
They came riding down the North-way to the City of the Kings. Shimmering in the twilight—an otherworldly sight to the citizens of Minas Tirith. There were few within who had seen the Firstborn in this wondrous guise ere this moment.

First to approach the city were two men of surpassing beauty whom many had seen walking the very streets of the city—the brethren Elladan and Elrohir. Right behind were many of the people of Rivendell, including the entire household of Elrond. They were led by valiant Glorfindel and gallant Erestor. The grey-cloaked Elven folk who followed hailed from the Golden Wood. The Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel rode at the head of their faithful Galadhrim, fierce warriors and lithesome maids alike.

Yet enthralled as the city’s inhabitants were by the wondrous sight before them, many at once descried the graceful figure of the fair creature who would be their queen. Though she and her father rode at the rear of the long procession of Elves, her luminous loveliness drew the eye as a honey-pot lures bees. Was it any wonder that Elessar eagerly strained to catch a glimpse of her from afar?

He stood at the ruined gate of the city, flanked by the Princes Imrahil and Faramir and the other great lords of Gondor on the one side and Gandalf and his Quest companions on the other. As their king did, almost all hearkened to the Evenstar’s allure. Almost.

Across the ever-shortening distance, a sapphire gaze met silver. Legolas had no eyes for any other but the comely Peredhel to whom he was espoused. In his opinion, naught was as beauteous as his Elrohir, not even Arwen be she hailed as Luthien returned. Save for Elladan mayhap, he inwardly amended with a smothered grin when a glance at Imrahil revealed the Belfalas prince to be staring quite raptly at the older twin.

He returned his gaze to the brethren. They were clad in white, the only other colors in their raiment the grey of their cloaks and the silver of the simple circlets upon their smooth brows. Above them fluttered a silver banner, its shaft resting in Elladan’s firm grip. They appeared as they truly were—scions of the line of High-kings of the once exiled Noldor from two ages past.

Legolas licked his lips impatiently. Though only weeks had passed since Elrohir had departed with Elladan to meet their sister’s escort, it seemed like years to the mercurial Wood-elf. Valar! How was he going to endure the decades of separation until Aragorn joined his fathers?

Though his face remained cool and impassive, his eyes blazed with fervent longing. The brethren came up to their king-brother. From atop his steed, Elrohir gazed down at his golden mate who was striving not to stare back far too obviously. A small smile curved the Elf-knight’s sinuous lips and something glittered in the depths of his pewter eyes. Legolas caught his breath and felt his cheeks begin to burn.

* * * *

Even late into the night, Minas Tirith seemed a-bustle with life and excitement, Elrohir thought as he gazed down upon the city from his bedchamber window. But that was not to be wondered at. The morrow would see Gondor’s king wed to his long awaited bride. There was a future to look forward to. Gondor would not end with this generation of men but would see many more ages to come.

Elrohir smiled as he surveyed his foster brother’s domain. He would not see those ages unfold in the land of his birth but he was confident Aragorn would set Gondor on the path to glory and prosperity once more. In a sense, a part of him would remain in Middle-earth even after he left its shores. For he and Estel were sprung from the same seed. Come what may, there would always be scions of the Mariner in these Hither Lands.

He turned his head at the sound of the door opening. His smile widened as Legolas slipped in, clad in a thin tunic, long breeches and light shoes, his hair loose about his shoulders.

It was gracious of Elladan to yield his place to his law-brother. Private quarters were at a premium in the building that served as the royal residential pavilion at present. Only the king’s immediate kin and the highest-ranking princes of Gondor had been given rooms within. The members of the Fellowship lived in a fair house where Legolas shared a room with his good friend Gimli.

Elrohir regarded his mate with pleasure. The archer’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation. Elrohir laughed softly when he crossed the room swiftly to enter into his embrace.

But Legolas could not help his haste. The sight of Elrohir in an open shirt and nothing more was a temptation the archer was not inclined to resist. He happily pressed his body against the Elf-knight’s, savoring the telltale hardness that pressed up against his groin. But first there was a question that needed answering.

He looked curiously at Elrohir, caressing the warrior’s sculpted jaw with his fingers. “Did you speak to your father about—about staying on?” he murmured.

Elrohir nodded, dipping his head slightly to draw a finger into his mouth, sucking it gently. Legolas shivered at the sensation and wondered if his spouse would get around to telling him more before tumbling him into bed. But with a husky chuckle, Elrohir released him and tenderly kissed him instead.

“He was very happy with our decision,” he said after a moment. “Ecstatic would be closer to the mark. I am glad we lightened his spirits for he has been weighed down for so long by Arwen’s choice. When we broached our desire, he was more than willing to aid us.”

“But how?” Legolas asked wonderingly. “Through whom did your father course your plea?”

“Think you the Valar do not speak to the Peredhil?” Elrohir mildly chided him. “And my father is Eärendil’s son after all.” At Legolas rueful acknowledgement, he continued. “The answer came to him in a dream as is oft the case with my family. We need not sail with him at once. But,” he cautioned at Legolas’s initial response of delight, “neither can we remain indefinitely. That is not within the Valar’s powers to grant.”

Legolas frowned. “Then how long may you remain?” he pressed.

“Until Círdan takes leave of these shores.”

“The shipwright?”

“Aye. When he departs, so will the greater number of his people go with him. As will all who may still linger in Imladris. Elladan and I must depart with him then.”

“And if you refuse?”

“Then we will be doomed to remain in Middle-earth forever,” Elrohir said somberly. “‘Tis a reprieve we have been given, not a full lifting of the constraints upon our family.”

Legolas considered this then grimaced. “‘Tis better than for you to leave soonest,” he whispered. “I will not complain but take what blessings the Powers can bestow on us.”

“They have already bestowed upon me the greatest blessing I could ever wish for,” Elrohir murmured. “They gave me the other half of my soul, my heart's desire. They gifted me with you.”

“But I have also brought you pain and sorrow, Elrohir,” Legolas sadly reminded him. “Through my willfulness, my rash decisions.”

“Yet they are as nothing beside the joy and contentment you have given me,” Elrohir countered. “I have not said this yet to you, my Legolas, but I am not only pleased to call you spouse but proud as well.”

“Proud?” the archer repeated.

“Aye, beloved. You have grown to be everything that is good and noble and valorous in my eyes. Even your mistakes were born of your pure heart and your implacable honor.” Elrohir stroked one fast coloring cheek. “How can I hold any of them against you? How can I not love you so?”

Before Legolas could reply, he pressed the archer against the near wall and preempted any speech with a searing kiss. Legolas promptly forgot what he had been about to say and hungrily returned the caress. He reached around and lazily unplaited the thick single braid that bound the twin’s raven hair. He felt Elrohir’s nimble fingers on his tunic, slowly undoing the simple clasps.

The warrior followed the path of his fingers, kissing and nipping at creamy flesh as it was uncovered. Nibbled at the archer’s white throat when the high collar came undone, gripping a fistful of golden hair to gently compel Legolas to tilt his head back as he had done their first night together. The archer groaned as the Elf-knight’s caresses lingered teasingly then moved steadily downward.

His tunic was pushed from his shoulders and pulled down his arms. At the same time, Elrohir engaged in a sensual assault on said shoulders before bending lower to invade the archer’s nipples. Legolas moaned with every suck and bite and lick, more so when Elrohir held him even closer, trapping him in a steely embrace. Grasping hard at the twin’s shoulders and arms he vaguely noted the loosening of his breech-laces and only realized they were undone when the garment sagged down around his hips then slid down his legs, pooling around his ankles.

The warrior dropped to his knees and nuzzled the golden curls that framed Legolas’s now rigid shaft, inhaling his singular scent. The Elf-prince blushed at the gesture—there was something altogether intimate about it and Elrohir never failed to remind him of the fact that they did share the utmost intimacy. There were certain acts, whether carnal or not, that neither had ever performed with other lovers; deeds that bespoke their devotion to each other and now affirmed the eternal commitment that bound them together. A wordless language of love that only they could comprehend.

Hands holding Legolas’s slender hips fast, Elrohir suddenly enclosed his thrumming flesh between his lips, eliciting a hoarse cry from the prince. The warrior was not gentle in the leas, but drew upon the rosy column lustily. Such voracious suckling swiftly brought Legolas to his peak and he exploded with ecstasy, spilling his seed into Elrohir’s mouth, making a litany of his mate’s name.

Elrohir stripped his shoes and breeches from him then rose to his feet. Legolas leaned limply against him, clutching at him as the sensations of his spending slowly ebbed. He pressed his hot face into the twin’s neck, kissing the sleek flesh affectionately. Regaining his breath, he drew back slightly to gaze at his beloved Elf-knight. Their mouths met once more.

Elrohir turned them about and backed him against the bed until Legolas felt its edge nudge the back of his knees. Only then did they break their molten caress as Legolas obligingly lay down upon the feather mattress. His eyes danced when Elrohir shrugged off his shirt and he held out his arms as the twin lowered himself upon the bed to join him.

Held firmly in Legolas’s embrace, Elrohir bestowed a myriad kisses upon the archer’s face and neck, some sweet and tender, others rough and demanding. Dropped the gentlest of caresses on his closed eyelids then pried his lips apart and pillaged the depths of his mouth. Drew a teasing tongue along the sensitive rim of the Wood-elf’s ear then wickedly sucked hard enough at the pale flesh of his neck to both mark him and draw a sharp cry from him.

Panting harshly, Legolas rolled them over and proceeded to pay back his spouse in kind. Mimicked Elrohir’s earlier ministrations until the warrior was arching up into his hands and mouth. Biting, suckling, licking, marking—leaving in his wake an ache that would be assuaged only by the most thorough of completions.

Elrohir briefly considered spending himself within the confines of Legolas’s undoubtedly talented mouth. But only briefly. The need to be one with his ravishing mate was far more powerful. With a firm “Nay” he reached down and pulled Legolas up to lie by him.

The prince gasped as he was pressed down almost brusquely upon his back and his legs all but forced apart. His wrists were caught, pulled above his head and pinned there. He stared in mixed elation and apprehensiveness at the twin. Elrohir had long ago perceived his liking for some rough usage now and then. But the warrior had lessened this aspect of their bed-play in the aftermath of his mother’s abduction and subsequent torment. It only resurfaced occasionally and mostly after a separation of some length or fraught circumstances such as in Edoras. Or when they faced an impending crisis as on their binding night—the very eve of the march to Mordor and almost certain doom.

“Elrohir—?”

“Speak not, _melethron_ ”—lover—the Elf-knight growled. “Only feel.”

Without preamble, without so much as a warning, he pressed into Legolas, steadily filling him, ignoring the archer’s shocked gasps and moans, the attempt to free his hands or the intuitive writhing of his body before so peremptory a breaching. Thickness counted as much as length and Elrohir was well endowed with both. It oft took Legolas several seconds to adjust to his lover’s considerable girth. Ere long the twin was sheathed to the hilt, a gasping cry from Legolas telling him he was well and truly embedded. He looked down at the prince, waiting for his movements to subside, holding his own breathing steady.

Only when Legolas found the wherewithal to lock his legs firmly around his waist did he move once more, driving hard and deeply into the lissome form beneath him. Held down, the archer could only helplessly bear the bruising thrusts, acutely feeling each entry into his body as Elrohir had bid him. Yielding to the Elf-knight’s rule over him.

He lost himself to the welter of sensations. Lay quivering with pleasure as he was repeatedly pierced. Felt the tight coil of rapture at the very center of his being begin to unravel. Emotion freely flowed between them—of love and lust and the need for oneness.

He cried out when he felt his aching length clasped in a firm grip. His eyes snapped open to stare at his darkling lover. Elrohir now held his wrists in one powerful hand while with the other he stroked the slick hot column that prodded his belly.

Legolas inexorably came undone. Gasps escaped his lips before they were supplanted by moans and finally sobs. “Sweet Eru!” he almost keened. “I cannot take this! Elrohir, please, I cannot—!”

He was silenced by the Elf-knight’s mouth upon his, denying him even that outlet for the outward expression of his pleasure. Perversely, this heightened it even further until he was just this side of screaming against Elrohir’s lips. Invaded in body and heart, he soon knew the invasion of his thoughts as well.

_Do you know how sweet you taste?_

A demanding tongue swept the very reaches of his mouth.

_How wanton you sound?_

He whimpered desperately against the Elf-knight’s lips.

_How well you fill my hand?_

Bucked as his shaft was gripped and caressed and stroked without cease.

_How beautiful you are when you enfold me in your soft, wet warmth?_

He shuddered in purest delight as Elrohir continued to plunge hard into his core.

As his impending release burgeoned, he clenched his muscles around the Elf-knight’s impaling length, which only served to draw Elrohir even deeper into his body. It was simply too much even for an Elf of Legolas’s enviable tolerance for the extremes of physical satiation.

He shattered within. Broke into a thousand pieces as rapture swept through his entire being, leaking into ever nook and cranny of his tremor-wracked body. Copious spurts of pearlescent cream dappled their bellies as the archer surrendered to his climax. Legolas half-sighed, half-sobbed when he felt the liquid heat that filled him as Elrohir joined him in the joyful storm of their joint culmination.

For several moments, they lay quietly, limbs still entangled, bodies still joined, breaths mingling as they awaited the slowing of their hearts.

With any other, this forcible, almost brutal taking would have been tantamount to a violation. But Elrohir knew Legolas; had judged his beloved’s needs well. Their reunion would be short-lived. There would be other even longer partings in the years to come including one that would have the whole of the sea between them. By staking his claim upon his mate in so masterful a fashion, Elrohir was in essence telling him that no matter the time or distance that might separate them, he owned him heart, body and spirit.

It was a statement that brooked no opposition. Legolas belonged to him. He could do as he wished to and with him in the privacy of their marriage bed. And he had the physical strength and compelling will to assert his primacy in their relationship if he so desired.

But he did not desire it. It was a statement and no more. And Legolas understood it, savored it, thrived on it. There was no more potent proof of love for so elemental an Elf as this forceful physical declaration of ownership.

At length, Elrohir gently withdrew from his prince and lay by his side, drawing him into the haven of his arms. Legolas nestled his golden head on the twin’s shoulder.

“I will miss you terribly whenever we must part, _melethen_ ”—my love—he whispered.

“You are not alone in your fears,” Elrohir murmured. “I have missed you every time we parted since your infancy.”

Legolas lifted his head and stared at him. “Even then, Elrohir?” he said in mingled astonishment and gladness.

“Even then.” The Elf-knight reached up and tucked a shining strand behind his ear. “Father mentioned that Mithrandir believed I belonged to you early on,” he replied. “I think he was right. Else why could I not stay away from you even when there was enmity between our peoples?”

The archer’s eyes moistened. “I had thought ‘twas only I who felt so incomplete when we were apart,” he admitted. “I never imagined that you might feel the same thing for a mere child.” He hugged Elrohir fiercely. “I am glad you were given more time to linger here. I would build more memories with you until the time when they will be all I will have to sustain me. To keep my grief at bay.”

Elrohir cupped his face in his hands and made him meet his eyes. “We will endure, _pen vell_ ”—dear one—he told the archer. “What are the years of Estel’s reign, however long, to the eternity we will know together when you at last come home to me? We will part for a time but when we come together again, it will be for all the ages of this world and beyond, my Legolas.”

He kissed the prince soundly, sealing their mouths in scorching union. With a moan, Legolas lay back, pulling Elrohir atop him. There was no need for words to tell his mate what he desired.

While the city below prepared for one union, they celebrated theirs to the fullest. Their bond had lasted for nigh a thousand years. Prevailed and flourished through the centuries. It would not falter now but would span the very life of Arda itself. And beyond.

_The End_


End file.
